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PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 

WITH NOTES BY THE AUTHOR 
AND MRS. SHELLEY 



EDITED BY 



EDWARD DOWDEN 



NEW YORK 
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER 






V^^vV-^-A^^'x 



CONTENTS 



Introduction by Edward 

DOWDEN 

Preface by Mrs. Shelley to 
ji First Collected Edition, 

^ 18;W 

^ Queen Mab (1813) . 
The DvEmon of the World 
A Fragment (1815) 
': Alastor ; or the Spirit of 
Solitude (1815) 
The Revolt of Islam (1817) 
Prince Athanase : A Frag 

, MENT (1817) 

' Rosalind and Helen (1817-18) 
\ Julian and Maddalo (1818) 
^Prometheus Unbound (1819) 
' The Cenci (1819) . 

The Mask of Anarchy (1819) 
Note by Mrs. Shelley . 

Peter Bell the Third (1819) 
' Letter to Maria Gisborne 

I (1830) 

. The Witch of Atlas (1820) 
f Note by Mrs. Shelley . 

' CEDIPUS TYRANNUS ; OR SWELL 

FOOT THE Tyrant (1820) 
Note by Mrs. Shelley 
Epipsychidion (1821 ) . 
^ Adonais(1S21) 
> Hellas (1821) .... 
^ Fragments of an Unfinished 

Drama a822) . 
^ Charles the First (1822) . 
! The Triumph of Life (1822) 
Early Poems (1814-15)— 
Stanza, written at Bracknell 
Stanzas— April, 1814 . 
To Mary Wollstonecraf t Godwin 



XX u 

1 



40 
52 

142 
147 
162 
172 
210 
251 
256 
256 

268 
273 
285 

285 
297 
298 
309 
318 

336 
340 
352 

361 
362 
362 



Early Poems- 
To 



: "Yet looTi on me— 

take not thine eyes away " . 363 

Mutability 363 

On Death : " The pale, the cold, 

and the moony smile " . . 363 
A Summer Evening Churchyard, 

Lechlade, Gloucestershire . 364 
To Coleridge . . . .864 
To Wordsworth . . . .365 
Feelings of a Republican on the 

Fall of Bonaparte . . . 365 
Lines : " The cold earth slept 

below " 365 

Poems written in 1816— 

The Sunset 366 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty . 366 
Mont Blanc : Lines written in 

the Vale of Chamouni . . 368 

Fragment : Home . . . 370 

Fragment : Helen and Henry . 370 

Note by Mrs. Shelley . . .370 

Poems written in 1817— 

Marianne's Dream . . . 370 

To Constantia, Singing . . 372 

To Constantifi .... 373 

Fragment : To One Singing . 373 

A Fragment : To Music . . 373 

Another Fragment to Music . 373 
" Mighty Eagle " . . . .374 

To the Lord Chancellor . . 374 

To William Shelley . . 375 
From the Original Draft of the 

Poem to William Shelley . 376 
On Fanny Godwin . . . 376 
Lines : "That time is dead for- 
ever, child" .... 3(0 
iii 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



Poems written in 1817— 
Death: "They die— the dead 
return not — misery " 

Otho 

Fragments supposed to be parts 

of Otho 

A Cloud-Chariot . 
To One freed from 



Fragment 
Fragment 

Prison 

Fragment : Satan at Large 
Fragment : Unsatisfied Desire . 
Fragment : Love Immortal 
Fragment: Thoughts in Solitude 
Fragment : The Fight was o'er 
A Hate-Song .... 
Lines to a Critic .... 
Ozymandias 

Poems avritten in 1818— 

To the Nile 

Passage of the Apennines . 

The Past 

To Mary : " O Mary dear, 

that you were here" 

On a Faded Violet 
? Lines written among the Euga- 
nean Hills 

Scene from "Tasso" . 

Song for " Tasso " 

To Misery 

Stanzas written in Dejection, 
near Naples .... 

The Woodman and the Nightin- 
gale 

Marenghi 

Sonnet : " Lift not the painted 
veil which those who live " . 

Fragment : To Byron . 

Fragment : Appeal to Silence . 

Fragment : The Stream's Mar- 
gin 

Fragment : A Lost Leader 

Fragment : The Vine amid Ruins 

Poems written in 1819— 
Lines written during the Castle- 

reagh Administration 
Song to the Men of England 



376 
376 

377 
377 

377 

377 
378 
378 
378 
378 
378 
378 
378 



379 
379 
379 

379 
379 

380 
383 
383 
383 

384 

385 
386 

389 
389 
390 

390 
390 
390 



390 
390 



PAGE 

Poems written in 1819— 

Similes for two Political Charac- 
ters of 1819 .... 391 

Fragment : To the People of 
England 391 

Fragment: "What men gain 
fairly " 

A New National Anthem . 

Sonnet : England in 1819 . 

An Ode : To the Assertors of 
Liberty 

Cancelled Stanza: "Gather, O 
gather" 393 

Ode to Heaven . . . .393 
-TOde to the West Wind 

An Exhortation . 

The Indian Serenade . 

Cancelled Passage of the Indian 
Serenade 395 



391 
392 
392 

392 



394 
395 
895 



To Sophia [Miss StaceyJ 

To William Shelley . 

To William Shelley . 

To Mary Shelley .... 

To Mary Shelley .... 

On the Medusa of Leonardo da 
Vinci in the Florentine Gal- 
lery 

Love's Philosophy 

Fragment : " Follow to the deep 
wood's Weeds" 

The Birth of Pleasure 

Fragment : Love the Univer.se . 

Fragment : "A gentle Story of 
two Lovers young" . 

Fragment : Love's Atmosphere . 
Fellowship of Souls . 
Reminiscence and 



396 
3% 
396 
396 
396 



396 
397 

397 
397 
398 

398 
398 

398 



Forebodings . 
Visitations of Calm 



Fragment ; 

Fragment 
Desire . 

Fragment 

Fragment 
Thoughts 

Fragment : Poetry and Music . 

Fragment : The Tomb of Mem- 
ory 

Fragment : Song of the Furies . 399 

Fragment : " Wake the Serpent 
not" 399 



398 
398 



398 
398 



399 



CONTENTS. 



Poems writtex in 1819— 
Fragment : Rain and Wind . 399 
Fragment : A Tale Untold . 399 
Fragment : To Italy . . .399 
Fragment: Wine of Eglantine . 399 
Fragment : A Roman's Cham- 
ber 399 

Fragment : Rome and Nature . 399 
Variation of the Lyric to the 

Moon 399 

Note by Mrs. Shelley . . .400 

Poems written in 1820— 
' The Sensitive Plant . . . 400 
Cancelled Passage of the Sensi- 
tive Plant 405 

A Vision of the Sea . . . 40.5 

■^he Cloud 408 

^To a Skylark . . . .409 
Ode to Liberty . . . .410 
Cancelled Passage of the Ode to 

Liberty 415 

To : "I fear thy kisses, 

gentle maiden "... 415 

Arethusa 415 

Song of Proserpine, while gath- 
ering Flowers on the Plain of 

Enna 416 

Hymn of Apollo . . .416 

Hymn of Pan . . . .417 

The Question .... 417 

The Two Spirits : An Allegory . 418 
Ode to Naples . . . .419 

Autumn : A Dirge . . 421 

The waning Moon . . 421 

To the Moon .... 422 
Death : " Death is here and 

death is there "... 422 

Liberty 422 

Bummer and Winter . . 422 

The Tower of Famine . . 423 

An Allegory 423 

The World's Wanderers . . 423 
Sonnet : " Ye hasten to the 

grave ! What seek ye there " 423 

Lines to a Reviewer . . . 434 

Fragment of a Satire on Satire 424 



Poems written in 1820— 

Good Night 425 

Buona Notte .... 425 

Orpheus 425 

Fiordispina 427 

Time Long Past .... 428 

Fragment : The Deserts of Sleep 428 

Fragment : Consequence . . 428 

Fragment : A Face . . . 428 

Fragment : Weariness . 428 
Fragment : Hope, Fear, and 

Doubt 428 

Fragment : "Alas ! this is not 

what I thought Life was " . 429 

Fragment : Milton's Spirit . 429 

Fragment : Unrisen Splendor . 429 

Note by Mrs. Shelley . . . 429 

Poems written in 1821— 
Dirge for the Year . . . 429 

To Night 430 

Time 430 

Lines: "Par, far away, O ye" 430 
From the Arabic : An Imitation 430 
To Emilia Viviani ... 431 
The Fugitives . . . .431 

To : "Music, when soft 

voices die " .... 431 
Song: " Rarely, rarely, comest 

thou " 432 

Mutability 432 

Lines written on hearing the 
News of the Death of Napo- 
leon 

Sonnet : Political Greatness 

The Aziola 

A Lament : "O world ! O life ! 

O time " 

Remembrance .... 
To Edward Williams . 
^ To : " One word is too 



often profaned "... 
To : " When passion's 

trance is overpast " 
A Bridal Song .... 
Another Version of the same . 
Another Version of the Same . 



432 
4a3 
433 

433 
434 
4M 

435 

435 
435 
435 
436 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



Poems written in 1821— 
Love, Hope, Desire, and F'ear 
Prologue to Hellas 
Fragments written for Hellas 
Fragment : " I would not be 

King" 

Ginevra 

Evening : Ponte a Mare, Pisa 
The Boat on the Serchio 

Music 

Sonnet to Byron . 

Fragment on Keats 

Fragment : " Methought I was 

a Billow in the Crowd " . 
To-morrow .... 
Stanza : " If I walk in Autumn's 

even " 

Fragment : A Wanderer . 
Fragment : Peace surrounding 

Life 

Fragment: "I Faint, I Perish 

with my Love "' . . . 
Fragment: "The Lady of the 

South" 

Fragment : The Awakener 
Fragment : Rain .... 
Fragment : Ambushed Dangers 
Fragment : " And that I walk 

thus proudly crowned " . 
Fragment : "The rude Wind is 



singmg" 
Fragment 
Fragment 

Deity" 
Fragment 

True . 



" Great Spirit " 
" O Thou Immortal 

False Laurels and 



Poems written in 1822 — 

The Zucca 

The Magnetic Ladj' to her 

Patient 

Lines : " When the Lamp is 

shattered" . . . . 
To Jane : The Invitation . 
To Jane : The Recollection 
With a Guitar, to Jane 



436 
437 
439 

440 
440 
443 
443 
445 
445 
446 

446 
446 

446 
446 

446 

446 

446 
447 
447 
447 

447 

447 
447 

447 

447 



447 

449 

449 
450 
450 
451 



Poems written in 1822— 
To Jane : " The keen Stars were 

twinkling" .... 452 

A Dirge 452 

Lines written in the Bay of 

Lerici 452 

Lines : ' ' We meet not as we 

parted " 453 

The Isle 453 

Fragment : To the Moon . . 453 
Epitaph 453 



Translations — 
Homer's Hymn to Mercury 

(1820) 454 

Homer's Hymn to Castor and 

Pollux 467 

Homer's Hymn to the Moon . 467 
Homer's Hymn to the Sun . 468 
Homer's Hymn to the Earth : 

Mother of All . . . . 468 
Homer's Hymn to Minerva . 469 
Homer's Hymn to Venus (1818) 469 
The Cyclops of Euripides (1819) 470 
Epigrams— 

To Stella 480 

Kissing Helena . . . .481 

Spirit of Plato . . . .481 

Circumstance .... 481 
Fragment of the Elegy on the 

Death of Adonis . . .481 
Fragment of the Elegy on the 

Death of Bion .... 482 
From the Greek of Moschus 

(1816) 482 

Pan, Echo, and the Satyr . . 482 
From Virgil's Tenth Eclogue . 482 
Sonnet from the Italian of Dante 

(1816) 483 

The First Canzone of the Con- 

vito (1820) 483 

Matilda gathering Flowers ( 1820) 484 
Fragment adapted from the Vita 

Nuova of Dante . . . 485 
Sonnet from the Italian of Ca- 

valcanti 485 



COXTENTS. 



Vll 



PAOE 

Tkaxslations— 
Scenes from Calderon's Magifo 

Prodi{,'ioso (IS'2'2) . . 485 
Scenes from (loetho's Faust 
(18'22) 4!»5 



JrVEMLlA— 

Verses on a Cat .... 503 

Frai4:nient : Omens (1807) . . 503 
Epitaphium (1808) . . .503 

InHorolosiiim(18at) . . . 504 
Song f nnn the Wandering Jew 

(1800) .504 

Fragment from the Wandering 

Jew ( IS!)!)) 504 

A Dialogue: "For my dagger 

is bathed in the blood of the 

brave" (1809) . . . .504 

To the Moonbeam (1800) . . 505 

The Solitary (1810) . . . 505 
To Death: "Death! where is 

thy victory" (18101 . . . .505 
Love's Rose (1810) . . .506 

Eyes : A Fragment (1810) . . 506 
Poems from St. Irvyne, or the 

Rosicrucian (published 1810) . .507 
Posthumous Fragments of Mar- 
garet IS icholson (ISIO) . , 510 



Juvenilia— 

Fragment: " 'Tis midnight 
now— athwart the murky 
air" 

Despair 

Fragment : " Yes ! all is past 
— swift time has fled away " 

The Spectral Horseman . 

Melody to a Scene of Former 

Times 

Stanza from a Translation of 

the Marseillaise Hymn . 
Bigotry's Victim (1810 ? 1811) . 
On an Icicle that clung to the 

Grass of a Grave (1809 ? 1811) 

Love (1811) 

On a Fete at Carlton House : 

Fragment (1811) 
To a Star (1811) . 
To Mary, who died in 

ion (1811) . 
A Tale of Society as it 

Facts, 1811 
To the Republicans 

America (1812) . 
To Ireland (1812) . 
To Harriet : A Fragment (1812) 
The Devil's Walk : A Ballad 

(1812) 



512 
513 



514 
515 



516 



516 
516 



this Opin- 



From 



of North 



518 
51 S 

.518 

518 

520 
520 
520 

520 



INTRODUCTION. 



Although Shelley wrote narrative poems and one preat tragedy, his penius was pri- 
marily lyrical, and his poetry tells more to a reader who is acquainted with his character 
and the "events of his life than to one who knows the poems only as if they had fallen out 
of the air from some invisible singer. No poet ever sang more directly out of his own 
feelings — his joys, his sorrows, his desires, his regrets ; and what he has written acquires 
a fuller meaning when we understand its source and its occasion. Shelley's puetry 
belongs also to a particular epoch in the world's history — the revolutionary epoch— and 
what may fairly be described as the body of doctrine which forms the intellectual back- 
ground of his imaginative visions can be comprehended only when we consider his work 
in relation to the period of which it is the outcome. "A beautiful and ineffectual angel, 
beating in the void his luminous wings in vain " — so Matthew Arnold, with a variation of 
Jouberfs sentence on Plato,' defined his conception of Shelley. The charm of the phrase 
must not render us insensible of its remoteness from the fact. Shelley was no angel, 
whether of celestial or diabolic race, but most human in his passions, his errors, his 
failure, his achievement. Nor was it in the void that he lived and moved ; he belonged in 
an eminent degree to the revolutionary movement of his own day, and viewed apart from 
the teaching of that geometer of the Revolution whom he accepted as his master— Wil- 
liam G.jd\vin— the work of Shelley is only half intelligible. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley was born on 4th August, 1T92, at Field Place, near Horsham, 
Sussex. The family was ancient and honf>rable, but no ancestor of the poet had ever 
given proof of literary genius. His grandfather, Bysshe Shelley, who received a baron- 
etcy in 1806, ha I ajjir.nulated a large fortune, had married two heiresses, had quarrelled 
with his children, and now, troubled with gout and the iutirmities of age, lived somewhat 
penuriously in a cottage-house at Horsliam. Timothy Shelley, the poefs father, was a 
countrj- geuMen m — dull, onsequentiiil, irritable, but not unkindly in disposition, who 
in the House of C >:ninons gave an unwavering vote for the Wliig party, and who was se- 
cured from all risk of aberration from the social conventions by a happy inaccessibility 
to ideas. His wife, Elizabeth, daugliter of Charles Pilfold of Effingham, Surrej', was 
beautiful in person, an 1 a woman of good sense, when her good sense was not obscured 
by temper. Though n j l.)ver of literature, she was an excellent letter-writer. 

Percy, the elde-it cliild, inherited his mother's beauty. He was slight of figure, of fair 
and rudely comple.\:ion, witli luminous blue eyes, and hair curling naturally, which 
changed from golleu to a rich brown ; in temperament gentle yet excitable, of rare 
sensibility, prone to yiel 1 up Ids imagination to fantastic tale or vision, but not devoid of 
a certain quaint mirthfulness which took delight in oddity and surprises. Having ac- 
quired soma knowle l<e of L:itin from a neighboring country parson, he was sent at ten 
years old to Sion House Academy, Isleworth, wliere Dr. Greenlaw taught some fifty or 
sixty boys, chiefly of the social middle class, and where Shelley's cousin, Thomas Med- 
win, was a pupil. The rough tyranny of the elder lads, who looked on the new scholar as 
strange and unso'jial because ho was sensitive and shy, sometimes drove him to violent 
if outbreaks of pi-^sitn ; yet, says his schoolfellow Rennie, '" if treated with kindness, he 
was very amiabl'», noble, high-spirited, and generous." Here Shelley made some progress 
in classical learning ; his sensa of intellectual wonder was much stimulated by scientific 
lectures ; and his heart awoke to the new and exquisite pleasure of romantic attachment 
to a boy of about his own age, whom he describes as of a character eminently generous, 
brave, and gentle. 

In 1801 he passed from Sion House Academy to Eton, at that date under the head- 
mastership of Dr. (j.>odall, aa excellent scholar and kindly gentleman, but one who held 
the reins of authority perhaps somewhat too loosely. Ahellev's tutor, George Bethell, 
with wh >m h"! boarded, was unluckily the dullest man in Eton : he had the merit, how- 
ever, of being goo<l-humored and well-meaning. At Eton as at Sion House Shelley stood 
apirt from the throng of his schoolfellows. His spirit rose in rebellion against the "system 
of fagging ; lie did not join in the school sports ; he pursued studies in which his young 
coevals did not care to follow him. All things seemed to point out " mad Shelley" as a 
fit and p -oper victim upon whom the other boys might let loose their animal spirits. " I 
have se.^n him, " wrote a schoolfellow, " surrounded, hooted, baited like a maddened bidl." 
If it was his tormentors' wish to excite their victim to paroxysms of rage, they often 

' " Plato loses himself in the void, but one sees the play of his wings, one hears their 
rustle," <iuoted by Matthew Arnold in his essay on Joubert. 

ix 



INTRODUCTION. 



attained the desired end. Yet liere, as at his earlier school, he won the goodwill of a few 
of his schoolfellows, who describe him as generous and open-hearted, of remarkable ten- 
derness of heart, possessed of much moral courage, and fearing nothing but what was 
false or low. No friend pleased him better than old Dr. Lind of Windsor, a man original 
in character and opinions, and of most amiable temper. Shelley has given idealized por- 
traits of this friend of hi.> boyhood in Zonoras of "Prince Athanase " and the aged hermit, 
of "The Revolt of Islam." 

Shelley's interest in what we may term the romantic side of modern science increased 
during the Eton years. He read the classics with a delight in the beauty of the poetry 
and a keen interest in the philosophical views of certain writers,— among "these Lucretii;s 
and Pliny,— but without showing much capacity for minute exactness of scholarship. 
The chief masters of his intellect were thoi.e eighteenth-century thinkers wlio seem to 
bring into a certain harmony the destructive or sceptical criticism of the age and those 
boundless hopes for tlie future which sprung phantomlike from the ruins of the past. 
He was too young to have learned the lessons of experience derived from the facts of tho 
French Revolution, as they developed themselves from day to day. He accented ths 
doctrine of the Aiifkldrung from Godwin's " Political Justice " with avvcd and delighted 
mind. With Condorcet he belield as in a vision the endless progress of the human race. 
His dreams were bright and generous dreams of youth, and in truth they were not alto- 
gether of a baseless fabric. Much that has become actual in the nineteenth century has 
grown out of the visions and aspirations of the age of revolution ; much perhaps remains 
to be realized. 

Two moments of boyhood memorable in the development of his spirit have found 
record in Shelley's verse — that in which, escaping from the feelings of resentment and 
revenge e.xcited by the persecutions and tyrannies of school, he vowed, for his own part, 
to be just, gentle, wise, and free : and that other moment when his imagination, escaping 
from the excitements of gross, fantastic horror, devoted its powers to the pursuit of 
spiritual beauty. The record of one of these moments will be found in the dedication of 
" The Revolt of Islam ; " the record of tho other in tlie " Hymn to Intellectual Beauty." 
Both of these inspirations of high resolve came in the springtime, vvhen the awakened 
life of nature seemed to reinforce the vitality of the spirit. 

Before leaving Eton Shelley was an author. The romance of "Zastrozzi," published 
in April 1810, was written, at least in great part, a year earlier. This and a second 
romance, " St. Irvyne, or the Rosicrucian," which apjieared before the close of the same 
year, are indescribably but not unaccountably absurd in their crude efforts at sublimity, 
their over-wrought horrors, their pseudo-passion, their sentimental inanities. The 
author, still a boy, was yielding an untrained imagination to the romantic movement of 
his day, as represented by its worst models, just as he had yielded his intellect in bond- 
age, which fancied itself liberty, to the revolutionary speculators and dreamers. Shel- 
ley's boyish romances cease to be inexplicably had when we have made acquaintance 
with certain Minerva Press novels of the same date ; we see that lie was only a disciple, 
not a creator, of the fantastic-absurd, to which Mrs. Radcliffe and M. G. Lewis had given 
a vogue, and which just at tins date was satirized in " Northanger Abbey," the earliest 
novel of our most exquisite humorist of domestic life. A poem in several cantos on the 
subject of " The Wandering Jew " was written (181U) by Medwin and Shelley in conjunc- 
tion ; four cantos appeared after Shelley's death, but it is uncertain whether they contain 
more than a few lines from his hand. A thin volume of verse entitled, " Original Poetry 
by Victor and Cazire," the work of Shelley and another, actually saw the li.arht in Sep- 
tember 1810; it was speedily withdrawn from circulation by the publisher on discovering 
the fact that one of the pieces was a transcript from the pages of M. G. Lewis. No copy 
of the " Original Poetry " is known to exist, and we can hartlly regret the disappearance 
of verses which a reviewer describes, in all probability not unjustly, as "downright 
scribble." 

It has been suggested that Shelley's coadjutor who assumed the feminine nam-^ 
"Cazire" was his cousin Harriet Grove, a beautiful girl of his own age, whom beloved with 
a boy's first ardor, and whom he would fain have made a partner in his own social, political, 
and religious beliefs and disbeliefs. The tone of his correspondence alarmed Harriot's 
family, and before long they had another settlement for her in view. Shelley suffered, 
or imagined that he suttered, much, declaimed against bigotry, and was resolved hence- 
forth to wage bitter war against that destroyer of human happiness. 

Having matriculated at University College, Oxford, In April 1810, Shelley entered on 
residence in Michaelmas term of the same year. In his fellow-student, Thomas Jefferson 
Hogg, son of a north-country gentleman of Tory politics, he found his closest ally. Hogg 
had high intellectual powers and a genuine love of literature; his type of mind and 
character was as remote from Shelley's as can well be conceived ; he was Keen-sighted, 
shrewd, sarcastic, but not devoid of some of the generosity of youth ; and he was highly 
interested in observing such a singular and charming phenomenon among young Oxonians 
of the days of the Regency as the idealist Shelley. Every one who knows anything of 
Shelley's life knows Hogg's admirable portrayal of Shelley at Oxford : every one has 
been an intimate with Hogg in the college chambers, wildly confused with electrical and 
chemical apparatus ; has heard the eager discourse of the young enthusiast concerning 
the mysteries of nature and the deeper mysteries of mind ; has seen him at his favorite 



INTRODUCTION. XI 



sports of skimming stones and sailiiip: piiper-boats on river or pond ; has strode across 
country with the pair in tlieir joyous winter walics. and sliared the frugal supper which 
they enjoyed on tlieir return ; has witnessed " the divine poet's" sweet humanity towards 
those who needed the sustenance of hand or heart, and no less his sudden outbreaks of 
indignation against the wrongdoer and the oppressor; has smiled with the narrator at 
the quaint freaks and fancies of the immortal child. 

"The devotion, the reverence, the religion with which he was kindled towards all the 
masters of intellect," says Hogg, " cannot be described." The biographer speaks of the 
purity and "sanctity" of Shelley's life, of his "meek seriousness" of heart, and "mar- 
vellous gentleness" of disposition. But with reverence for the self-elected master.'^ of his 
intellect, ami this marvellous gentleness Shelley united a contempt for inheritance and 
tradition. and an intellectual audacity which was unchecked byany adequate sense of the 
ditflculties encompassing the great problems of human thought. His guides were the 
lights of the eightcfuth-century illumination. Had he mastered Kant as well as Holbach, 
and submitted his intellect to Burke as he submitted it to Godwin, he might not have 
shot up so quickly, but his roots would have plunged deeper and embraced the soil more 
firmly. Yet it is hard to conceive Shelley as other than he actually was. And it may be 
that the logical gymnastic of his studies in eighteenth-century thinkers — and those espe- 
cially of France— saved him in some degree from the dangers of an excessive tendency 
towards the visionary. " Had it not been for this sharp brushing away of intellectual 
cobwebs," writes Mr. Salt. " his genius, always prone to mysticism and metaphysical 
subtleties, miglit have lost itself ... in a labyrinth of dreams and fantasies, and thus 
have wasted its store of moral enthusiasm." Only we must remember that in the eight- 
eenth century crusade* against thrones and churches there was a good deal of visionary 
destructiveness, as events have provetl, and that a part of Shelley's moral enthusiasm, as 
some of us venture t') tliink, was not wisely directed. 

Shelley's career at University (JoUege was brief. In February, 1811, a small pamphlet 
entitled "The Necessity of Atheism" was issued from a provincial press at Worthing in 
Sussex. The author's name was not given, but in (;)xford, where the pamphlet was 
offered for sale, it was known to be the work of Shelley. On being interrogated by the 
master of liis college Shelley refused to answer the questions put to him. The .same 
questions were put to Hogg, who had come forward to remonstrate with the authorities ; 
he also tleclinedto reply, and on 2.5th March both youths were e.xpelled from University 
College for contumacy in refusing to answer questions and declining to disavow the 
publication. 

" I once was an enthusiastic Deist," Shelley wrote a few weeks later, " but never a 
Christian.'' His atheism was the denial of a creator rather than the denial of a living 
spirit of the universe. A Christian he never became in the theological sense of that 
word ; but certainly, at a later time, he deeply reverenced the personal character of 
Jesus. And his militant ardor against the historical developments of Christianity in 
some degree waned as he became better acquainted with tlie literature and art of mediae- 
val Italy. His faith in later years had in it something of Plato's and of Berkeley's ideal- 
ism ; something perhaps also of the philosophic system of Spinoza. 

A word must be said of the •' Posthumous Fragments of JIargaret Nicholson," which 
appeared in Shelley's first term at University College. Poems written with a serious 
inteniion, but bearing all the marks of immaturity, were put forth under cover of a jest, 
and were perhaps retouched— Hog-c assist ing — wil h a view to burlesque effect. Margaret 
Nicholson, a mad washerwoman, had attempted the King's life, and was now in Bedlam. 
It was decided that slie should be the authoress of the verses, and that their publication 
should be posthumous, under the editorial supervision of an imaginary nephew, John 
Fitz- Victor. The pamphlet was brought out in quarto form ; the mystification perhaps 
delighted the author, but we do not find it difficult to credit the publisher's statement 
that the work was almost still-born. 

On quitting Oxford the two college friends resided for a while together in London lodg- 
ings. Mr. Timothy Shelley refused to receive his son at Field l^lace uiUess he would under- 
take to break off all communication with Hogg, and siibmit himself to appointed tutors 
and governors. Such contlitions Shelley declined to accept, and so remained in exile from 
his home with a sore feeling that he was tuijustly punished for intellectual beliefs for 
which he was not morally responsible. On Hogg's departure to his friends, Shelley 
remained in lodgings alone. His younger sisters were schoolgirls at Clapham, and 
through them he hail already made the acquaintance of their companion, Harriet Wes't- 
brook, apink-and-white schoolgirl beauty of sixteen, with a pleasant temper, a bright 
smile, and a pretty manner, — the dauerhter of a retired I^ondon coffee-house keeper. Her 
guide and guardian, the elder 5Ilss Westbrook, already thirty years' old. showed a most 
affectionate interest in the young misbeliever, who was also a prospei^tive baronet with a 
great property entailed, wrote to him. calleti on him with Harriet, conduct e<l him tochurch, 
read under his guidance the works of heretics. WIkmi in the summer .Shelley visited his 
cousin Mr. Grove at Cwtii Elan in Radnorshire, the AVesthrooks were also in'Wales. and 
communications went to and fro between Shelley and his sisters. On the return of the 
Westbrooks to I^onilon \irgent letters came from Harriet ; she was persecuted in her 
home ; they were about to force her to return to school where she was miserable ; shoidd 
she resist her father, or would it be wrong to put an end to her life ? Another letter 



Xll INTRODUCTION. 



came in which she threw herself on Shelley's protection ; she would fly with him if hft 
were but willing. Shelley hastened to London, yet before he left Wales he found time to 
write to his cousin Charles telling him that if he devoted himself to Harriet it was not 
for love's sake but through a chivalrous motive of self-sacrifice. On seeing Harriet, he 
was shocked by her altered looks, which he ascribed to the suffering caused by domestic 
persecution ; she now avowed that it was not so, that she loved him and feared that he 
could not return her love. They parted with a promise on Shelley's part that if she 
summoned him from the country he would come quickly and unite his fate with hers. 
Within a week the summons arrived. Immediately arrangements for flight by the north- 
ern mail-coach were made, and on the 28th of August, 1811, Shelley and Harriet West- 
brook, aged respectively nineteen and sixteen, joined hands as man and wife at Edin- 
burgh, with such ceremony as the Scottish law required. It needed some straining of the 
principles of a disciple of William Godwin to submit to a legal form of marriage ; but 
for the sake of Harriet's appearance in the eyes of the world he consented to what he 
regarded as an evil. He assured her that for his own part he did not consider the con- 
tract binding, if at some future time their union should prove a source of misery instead 
of happiness. And'in so far he was obedient to the teaching of his philosophic master. 

In fact, at this time, Shelley was immeasurably more interested in a Sussex schoolmis- 
tress. Miss Kitchener, whom he had idealized into an Egeria or a Cythna, than in Harriet 
Westbrook. This very commonplace person became for his boyi.sh imagination a type 
of all that is most exalted in womanhood, but his feeling was one of homage and rapture, 
not a feeling of love, which could descend to the commonplace of wedlock. " Blame me 
if thou wilt, dearest friend," he wrote to her, when apologizing for his marriage, " for 
still thou art dearest to me ; yet pity even this error if thou blamest me." A closer 
acquaintance with Miss Kitchener, a year later, resulted— after a fashion too common 
with Shelley— in an idealization of an opposite kind ; the worthy woman assumed the 
form of a demon of selfishness and ignoble passion, an angel indeed still, but of the 
diabolic kind. 

Shelley's father had allowed him two hundred pounds a year before his marriage ; now 
he saw fit to give the rash boy a lesson by cutting off supplies. Ultimately the allow- 
ance was again given, and with two hundred pounds also from Mr. Westbrook, the young 
couple were not in danger of want. 

From Edinburgh they journeyed to York, where they passed under the control of the 
evil providence of tlieir wedded life, the elder sister, Eliza Westbrook ; and where mis- 
conduct of Hogg's caused a temporary breach between him and Shelley. From York 
they passed to Keswick, attracted in part by the fact that there resided Southey, for 
whose poetry Shelley at the time had a strong admiration. Southey received the young 

Eeople with characteristic kindness, but to Shelley he seemed a spent force, a withered 
ranch, because he took little interest in metaphysical subtleties, and had lost his early 
confidence in the virtue of Revolutionary abstractions. A more congenial personal 
influence was that of William Godwin, with whom Shelley entered into correspondence 
while at Keswick ; he laid bare his spirit before Godwin as before a philosophic confessor, 
listened to his direction with reverence, and hoped for the joy of a closer intimacy with 
this latest and greatest of the sages. 

With his desire at once to translate his ideas into action for the service of the world, 
Shelley looked abroad for a battle-field where he might combat on behalf of freedom, and 
he found it, as he supposed, in Ireland. He prepared an Address to the Irish people, 
consisting, as he states it, " of the benevolent and tolerant deductions of philosophy 
reduced into the simplest language." He would plead on behalf of Catholic Emancipa- 
tion, on behalf of the Repeal of the Union ; he would endeavor to establish a system of 
societies in Ireland for the discussion of social, political, and moral questions ; he would 
inculcate principles of virtue and benevolence. With such views he visited Dublin, 
scattered abroad a couple of pamphlets, spoke at a public meeting where O'Connell had 
harangued, dined with Curran and felt no liking for his host, discovered that the state of 
Irish politics and parties was not quite as simple as he had supposed, and yielding to 
Godwin's advice and his own sense of failure, quitted Ireland, having effected little for 
the cause in which he was interested. 

From Dublin Shelley, with Harriet and the inevitable Eliza Westbrook, crossed to 
Wales, and after a short residence amid wood and stream and mountain at Nantgwillt, 
proceeded to the coast of North Devon, and took up his abode (June 1812) in a cottage at 
Lynmouth, then a secluded fishing-village. The July and August days were among the 
happiest of Shelley's life ; his regard for his young wife had deepened mto sincere love ; 
he was in communication with the immortal Godwin ; his lady of light. Miss Hitchener, 
visited the cottage, and was not yet discovered to be an intolerable affliction ; his mmd 
was vigorously occupied with a prose pleading on behalf of liberty of speech— the ' ' Letter 
to Lord Ellenborough,"--and with certain ambitious enterprises in verse. Of these last 
some still remain in manuscript ; but the most important, " Queen Slab," sufficiently 
exposes its author's spirit at this period, his convictions, his hopes, his dreams, his views 
of the past, his aspirations towards the future. " It is," I have said elsewhere, " a kind 
of synthesis which harmonizes the political and social fervors of the Irish expedition, 
ith all their wisdom and folly, and the imaginative exaltation to which the grandeur 
id loveliness of Welsh hillsides and Devon cliffs and waves had given rise. It 



and 



INTRODUCTION. xill 



is a pamphlet in verse, but with some of the beauty of poetry underlying its declam- 
atory prophesyiutr. Its pictorial effects are sometimes rather spectacular than in a high 
sense imaginative. Its thought is often crude. It suffers from a moral shallowness, 
derived in part from Godwin, and arising from the supposition that evil exists less iu 
human character tlian in human institutions. Its survey of the past liistory of society is 
superficial and onesided ; its hopes for the future are iu great part fantastic. Yet the 
poeni, which may be held to lie midway between Shelley's ".Juvenilia" and the works of 
his adult years, has value in its deep sympathy with humanity .and its imaginative setting 
forth of the idea of a cosmos, the unity of nature, the universality of law, the vast and 
ceaseless ttow of Being ever subject to a process of evolution and development. In cer- 
tain passages the writer ceases to be a doctrinaire rhetorician, and rises into a poet who 
can interpret alike the facts of external nature and the longings of the human heait. 
" Villainous trash," was Shelley's own description of "Queen Ulab," when a pirated 
edition appeared in 18^1 ; but time, the arbiter, has pronounced that it forms in fact an 
integral part of his gift to our literature. " Queen Mab " was finished in February, 1813, 
and was printed in tliat year for private distribution, 

Shelley's residence at Lynmoulh came to an untimely end. He liad amused himself — 
yet with a" grave face— by launching into the Bristol Channel boxes and bottles, each 
laden with a copy of his broadsheet " Declaration of Rights," or his poem " The Devil's 
Walk," for the waves and winds to put into circulation. On 19th August liis Irish servant 
was watched as he posted up about Barnstaple copies of the " Declaration," a statement 
on the subject of government and society drawn up on the model of French Revolution- 
ary documents. The Irishman was arrested, convicted, and sentenced to six months' 
imprisonment. His master, having done what he could to lighten Dan's sufferings in 
prison, hastily left the Lyumouth cottage, and took refuge in tlie little town of Tiemadoc 
in the county of Carnarvon. Here for atimeShelley wasmuch interested in the fortunes 
of the great embankment, designed to rescue a tract of land from the sea. He at tempted 
to collect funds to carry on the undertaking, contributed himself out of all proportion to 
his means, and visited London in order to solicit further subscriptions. In London 
(October, 1812) he saw Godwin face to face for the first time, and tlie impression on each 
side was favorable. He renewed his friendship with Hogg; finally broke witli his once 
worshipped, now detested. Miss Kitchener ; and added to the circle of his acquaintances, 
the agreeable family of Jlr. Newton, whose zeal on behalf of vegetarianism commended 
him to Shelley. During the winter in Wales he e.xerted himself generously on behalf of 
the suffering poor ; he studied the philosophers of the French illumination and, under 
Godwin's advice, endeavored to gain some real acquaintance with history, added to his 
store of manuscript poems, and prepared for publication a series of extracts from the 
Bible which were selected with a view to set forth a pure morality unencumbered by 
what Shelley held to be biblical mythology. On the night of 2Gth February, 1813, the 
lonely house of Tanyrallt, which the Shelleys occupied, was entered by some villain 
bent on outrage. Alarmed by the noise, Shelley descended, pistols in hand, from nis 
bedroom. Shots were fired and an encounter took place, which ended in the escape of 
the marauder. Attempts have been made to discredit the story of this adventure. 
There do not appear to be sufficient grountls for disbelief, but we may perhaps accept 
the theory that Shelley's overwrought nerves played tricks upon him after the attack, 
and that the alleged later attempt at assassination on the same night was a delusion of 
the brain. 

On a second visit to Ireland Shelley travelled as far south as Killarney and Cork. In 
April he was again in London, where in June, 1813, his first child, a girl, named lanthe, 
was born, " He was extremely fond of his child," says Peacock, " and would walk up 
and down a room with it in his arms for a long time together, singing to it a monotonous 
melody of his own making." When Harriet had recovered, she and her husband moved 
to Bracknell in Berkshire, attracted thither by the presence of Mrs. Boinville (sister-in- 
law of the vegetarian Newton) and her young married daughter Cornelia Turner. These 
new friends were cultivated, refined, enthusiastic, perhaps somewhat sentimental. 
With Cornelia as his fellow-student Shelley made progress in Ariosto, Tasso, Petrarch. 
It would have been a time of great enjoyment but that pecuniary troubles disturbed 
him; debts had accumulated, and he was forced to raise money at ruinous interest by 

f)ost obit bonds. In October he left Bracknell, wandered northwards to the English 
akes, and thence proceeded to Edinburgh. But his stay in Scotland was not for long. 
Before the close of the year ho was settled in a furnished house at Windsor, in the midst 
of his schoolboy haunts and at no great distance from Bracknell, where the Boinvilles 
still resided. For a time he occupied himself in writing the dialogue published in 1814 
with the title " A Refutation of Deism," in which it is his aim to demonstrate that no via 
media can be foiuid between Christianity and Atheism. 

In order to raise money it was necessary to place beyond all doubt the legitimacy of 
any son and heir who might be born to Shelley ; doubts were probably raised as to the 
validity of the Scotch wedding ; arid accordingly on 24th JIarch, 1814, Shelley went through 
the ceremony of marriage with Harriet according to the rites of the Church of England. 
But before this event his domestic happiness had been grievously clouded. Whatever 
intellet'tual and spiritual sympathy at atiy time existed between him and his young wife 
hatl now ceased to exist. She aspired to a more fashionable life than he could endure ; 



XIV INTRODUCTION. 



her expenditure on dress, silver-plate, and a carriage plunged him deeper in debt, when 
debt had become a misery and a degradation. Eliza Westbrook had grown an intolerable 
presence in the household, and yet Eliza Westbrook was forever at hand. Slielley was 
urgent that Harriet should nurse her child, and Harriet insisted on hiring a wet-iiurse. 
At length the managing elder sister withdrew, but Harriet maintained after her depart- 
ure a hard and cold bearing as of one who had suffered wrong. Shelley sought for some 
imperfect consolation in the friendship of Mrs. Boinville and Mrs. Turner. In May he 
implored for a reconciliation, but without effect. Harriet quitted her home and went to 
reside in Bath, while her husband took refuge in London, 

VVith characteristic generosity he was at this time endeavoring to succor Godwin who 
had pressing need of a large sum of money. In May or June Shelley first looked with 
interest on Mary, the daughter of Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft. She had just re- 
turned fi-om a visit to Scotland— a girl in her seventeenth year, with golden hair, a pale, 
pure face, great forehead, and earnest eyes of hazel. She was vigorous of intellect, pos- 
sessed of much mental courage, and much firmness of will, united with sensibility and 
ardor of heart. The second Mrs. Godwin had made Mary's home unhappy. She and 
Shelley drew towards each other in what at first seemed to be friendship, but quickly, 
proved itself love. At the same time — if we may trust a statement of Mrs. Godwin's 
daughter, Claire Clairmont— Shelley had not only come to believe that Harriet had ceased 
to love him ; he declared his belief that she had proved faithless to him, and had formed 
a connection with an Irish officer named Ryan. There is no proof that Shelley had 
evidence sufficient to support this charge, and Harriet herself asserted her fidelity. Her 
assertion is supported by Thornton Hunt, Hookham, Hogg, and others. But Godwin 
stated in 1817 that he knew from unquestionable autliority, wholly imcornected with 
Shelley, that Harriet had proved unfaithful to her husband before their separation. We 
can readily suppose that Shelley might persuade himself of what was not the fact. He 
wrote to Harriet begging her to come to London. On her arrival ( IJth July) he told her 
that he could no longer regard her as his wife ; that his heart was given to Mary Godwin ; 
but that he would continue, as far as might be, to watch over her interests. The shock 
and agitation of Shelley's disclosure brought an illness on Harriet, during which Eliza 
Westbrook was in constant attendance, and Shelley besought the sufferer to let urn to 
life and health. But his resolution to part from her remained unchanged. Having made 
arrangements for Harriet's material comfort, he prepared, without the knowledge of 
Godwin or his wife, for flight with Mary. On the morning of 38th July, 1814, the fugitives 
were on their way to France. They had persuaded Claire Clairmont, the daughter of 
Godwin's wife by a virevious marriage, to be their companion. \n idealized record of 
Shelley's days of misery with Harriet is probably to be found in the confessions of the 
madhouse-prisoner of "Julian and Maddalo." A less obscure narrative of the causes of 
estrangement is given with altered names in Mrs. Shelley's novel of " Lodorc. " 

Crossing from Dover to Calais in an open boat, the runaways made for Paris, and 
having there procured money, they travelled, Shelley on foot, Mary or Claii'e on nuileback, 
towards Switzerland. From" Troyes Shelley wrote to Harriet a letter which would be 
incomprehensible if coming from any other writer, in which he expressed a hojie that 
she would follow them, and reside under his care in their immediate neighborhood. On 
reaching Brunnen on the Lake of Lucerne, the wanderers engaged rooms, but appre- 
hending a difficulty of obtaining supplies at so great a distance from England, they 
hastily turned homewards, descended the Rhine as far as Cologne, and after an absence 
of six weeks reached London in the middle of September. 

The months in London between mid-September and January, 1815, were months of 
trial and vexation. Godwin was estranged ; the intercourse viith Harriet, who in Novem- 
ber gave birth to Shelley's second child, a son, was of a troubled kind ; there were sore 
straits for money, and during some days Shelley, while hiding from creditors, was parted 
from Mary. But the opening month of 1815 altered his circumstances. On 0th January 
his grandfather died, and Shelley became the immediate heir to a great property, By 
parting with his interest in a portion of the estates to his father, he secured an annual 
income of one thousand pounds, and also received a considerable sum for the payment 
of his debts. Unhappily, at the same time that his worldly goods increased, his healtli in 
some degree failed. Inthe summer he wandered through Devon, and early in August 
found a happy resting-place at Bishopsgate on the borders of Windsor Park. Accom- 
panied by Mary and his friend Peacock, he spent some delightful days in a river excur- 
sion up the Thames as far as Lechlade, of which we have a memorial in one of the early 
lyrical pieces. On his return home he composed in the glades of Windsor Great Park the 
poem which first proves that his genius had attained to adult years, his " Alastor." It is, 
in its inmost sense, a pleading on behalf of huTuan love— that love which he had himself 
sought and found ; it is a rebuke to the man of genius — the seeker for beauty and the 
seeker for truth— who would live apart from lumian sympathy ; yet the fate of the 
solitary idealist, Shelley tells us, is less mournful than that of one who should fatten in 
apathy, " instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful knowledge, duped by no illustrious 
superstition." The poem is a record, marvellously exalted, of his experiences of the 
past year,— his thoughts of love and death, and the impressions derived from external 
nature amid Swiss lake and mountain, on the arrowy Reuss, among the rock-guarded 
passes of the Rhine, and in presence of the autumnal glories of Windsor Forest. 



INTRODUCTION. XV 



lu January, ISIG, Mary gave birtli to a boy, named William after Iier father. Still 
(iodwiii maintained his attitude of alienation from Shelley, though he deigned to accept 
liberal gifts of money. At length Slielli^y grew indignant, yet was not the less zealous in 
rendering Godwin what aid he could. It seemed that Mary and he would be happier in 
any other country thi'i in Kngl;ind, where kinsfolk and former friends averted their 
fai'es in anger or in shame. Accortliugly, it was decided that trial should be made of a 
residence aiiroad ; there would be a compensation iu the diminished cost of living for the 
loss of English fields and skies. In the early days of May, 181G, Shelley, with Mary, little 
\VilMam, and Claire Clairniont, was e/i route for Geneva by way of Paris. 

Of Byron's Intrigue with Miss Clairniont, Shelley and Mary, when they started from 
England! were in profound ignorance. But it was with a view of meeting Byron that 

I Claire had been urgent with Shelley to take her abroad. At Secheron, a small suburb of 
(Jeneva, the two great poets met. When Shelley moved into occupation of a cottage on 
the opposite side of the lake, and Byron took refuge from an importunate public at the 
Villa Diodati, they were in constant communication. They rowed or sailed together, and 
towards the close of June, circumnavigated the lake, during which excursion "The 
Prisoner of Chillon "' was written. AVith Mary for his companion, Shelley visited Cha- 
niouni. The feelings with which Swiss scenery inspired him may be read in the poem 
•' Mont Blanc," and the noble " Hymn to Intellectual Beauty." Mary also was moved to 
imaginative creation, and now conceived the design of her tale of "Frankenstein," under- 

\ taken in fulfilment of an a.greement that each of the friends— herself, Byron, Shelley, and 

I the young physician, Polidori— should produce a ghost-story. Notwithstanding the 
delights of Switzerland, the hearts of Shelley and Mary turned longingly towards Eng- 

I land. Before quitting Geneva they had the pleasure o"f making the acquaintance of M. 
(i. I.,ewis, the celebrated author of "The Monk," a book which Shelley, as a boy, had 
read with eager enjoyment. Early in September their feet were once more on English 
soil. 

But it seemed as if they had returned only to encounter calamity. On 9th October 
Mary's half-sister, Fanny, the daughter of JIary Wollstonecraft, who had been for some 
time past in depressed spirits, put an end to iier life by poison in an inn in Swansea. 
Alarmed by a desponding letter Shellej- had hastened from Bath, where he was residing, 
to meet her, but arrived too late. The shock of excitement ami grief was for a time 
disastrous to his health, and it was well for him that at this motnent he found a friend 
of bright and courageovis temper in Leigh Hunt. Disaster, however, followed on 
disaster. In November Shelley was seeking to discover Harriet, who had disappeared 
from his ken and from the protection of her father. On 10th December her body was 
found in the Serpentine River. At first after the parting with Shelley she had hoped 
that he would return to her ; when this hope faded away her unhappiness was great, she 
complained of the restraint to which she was subjected in her father's house, arid already 
spoke of suicide. For some time before her death she had broken away from that 
restraint. Her daughter aged three, and her little boy of two years old, had been placed 
with a clergyman iu Warwick. She herself lived openly for a time, Godwin tells a cor- 
respondent, with a certain colonel whom he names. Then she seems to have sunk lower, 
and to ha'-e been deserted. In informing Shelley of the terrible event, the bookseller, 
Hookham, mentioned that had she lived a little longer she would have given birth to a 
child. • The evidence at the coroner's inquest confirms the statement. Shelley was 

• deeply moved, but not as though he were the author of the calamity. "I take God to 
witness, if such a Being is now regarding both you and me," he afterwards wrote to 
Southey, " and I pledge myself, if we meet, as perhaps you expect, before Him after 
death, to repeat the same in His presence — that you accuse me wrongfully. I am inno- 
cent of ill, either done or intended." It was now possible for him to give Mary her right 
name of wife, and he lost no time in celebrating his marriage (-"JOth December, 1816). He 
claimeil his children from the Wi'Stbrooks, but the claim was resisted. After tedious 
proceedings in Chancery, judgment ^vas given by Lord Eldon to the effect that inasmuch 
as Shelley's professed opinions led to conduct which the law pronoiuiced immoral, the 
children could not be placed in his immediate care ; but since he had named suitable 
persons to elucate them— a Dr. and Mrs. Hume— they should be intrusted to those ctisto- 
dlans during their minority, and their father .shouldbe permitted at certain times to see 
them. The Chancellor's decision was not designed to be harsher than seemed necessary; 
but the loss of his children was a greater blow to Shelley than the death of their mother, 
and for a time he even feared that little William might also be taken from him. 

While the Chancery affair was proceeding, Shelley resided at Great Marlovv, on the 
Thames. (Occasionally in London he visited Hunt, at whose house he met Keats and 
Hazlitt. He was now on amicable terms with Godwin, and gained a new and valuable 
friend in Horace Smith. At Marlow, notwithstanding the Chancery troubles, he had 

* When I wrote my " Life of Shelley," I did not think it necessary to state some of the 
facts mentioned above, with the result that somecritlcs, who did not take the trouble to 
'^xamine the Thiici newspaper to which I referred, charged me with making false accu- 
sations against Harriet Shelley, whose faults I desired not to deny but to veil. Since then 
"Mrs. ."ifarshall has set forth the facts in her " Life and Letters' of Mary Wollstonecraft 
Shelley," and I have now no motive for reserve. 



XVI INTRODUCTION. 



many happy days ; he read much in classical and modern literature ; designed and wrote 
some portions of " Prince Athanase " and of " Rosalind and Helen ; " and while alone in 
his boat on the Thames or among the Bisham woods, he made steady progress with his 
ambitious epic of revolution and counter-revolution, "Laon and Cytlina." '"He saw, or 
thought he saw " — I quote words of my own previously written—" as the great fact of 
the age a vast movement towards the reconstruction of society, in which the French 
Revolution had been a startling incident — an incident fruitful of much evil and much 
good. It was his desire to rekindle in men the aspiration towards a happier condition of 
moral and political society, and at the same time to warn men of the dangers which 
arise in a movement of revolution from their own egoisms and greeds and baser passions ; 
it was his desire to present the true ideal of revolution— a national movement based on 
moral principle, inspired by justice and charity, unstained by blood, unclouded by tur- 
bulence, and using material force only as the tranquil putting forth in act of spiritual 
powers. . . . Unhappily, with all that was admirable in the Revolutionary movement of 
his time — its enthusiasm of humanity, its recognition of a moral element in politics, its 
sentiment of the brotherhood of man— there are united in Shelley's poem all its shallow 
sophisms. Shelley's illusions are such as could now deceive no thinking mind. His 
generous ardiirs, the quivering music of his verse, the quick and flamelike beauty of 
his imagery, still bear gifts for the spirits of men." 

Some few copies of "Laon and Cythna" had been issued when voices of protest 
alarmed Oilier the publisher. He insisted that certain alterations should be made. 
Violent attacks on theism and the Christian faith, as he held, were ill-judged and out of 
place ; the relationship of the hero and heroine as brother and sister was a ground of 
grave and just offence. And it is true that in this last particular Shelley's poem gave a 
flagrant example of the unsoundness of the revolutionary way of thought, which with a 
solvent of abstract notions, erroneously deduced, proceeds to disintegrate social relations 
and sentiments that are among the finest products of the evolution of the race. By some 
strokes of the pen and a few cancel-pages "Laon and Cythna" was altered into " The 
Revolt of Islam." There was the loss of one or two admirable lines ; but in yielding to 
the pressure of public feeling, acting through his publisher, Shelley removed an ethical 
blot which could not fail with many, and those not the least judicious, readers, to mar 
even the artistic efTect of his poem. 

During the early montlis of 1817 the effects of a bad harvest were keenly felt by the 
poor of Marlow, where lace-making was the principal industry. Shelley, says Peacock, 
went continually among them, and to the extent of his ability relieved the most urgent 
cases of distress. He organized his relief into a system, and among those in need gave a 
preference to widows and children. The wrongs and sufferings of the toiling masses 
weighed heavily on his spirit. Yet in "A Proposal for putting Reform to the Vote," by 
"The Hermit of Marlow," he showed himself more moderate in his demands of immediate 
reform than many of his political contemporaries. This, indeed, was characteristic of 
Shelley. He was opposed to violence, and was well content with small gains as an instal- 
ment, though his vision of the remote future never permitted him to rest in any pro- 
visional advantage. Shelley's poetry expresses his visions as a seer of the far-off golden 
age ; his prose writings express his thoughts as a practical reformer. In " An Address 
to the People on the Death of the Princess Charlotte," he laments the death of the young 
wife and motlier ; but he sees a more grievous calamity, and one worthy of deeper grief, 
in the condition of the people of England. Shelley's labors among the poor, his anxiety 
in connection with the Chancery affair, and the excitementof poetical composition, inju- 
riously affected his health. It was even feared that seeds of consumption were being 
developed in his constitution. He resolved to leave Marlow, which evidently did not suit 
him, and make the experiment of a residence in Italy. Another motive tended to draw 
him in that direction— Byron was at Venice, and Shelley desired that Byron's daughter, 
Allegra, the child of Miss Clairmont, should be placed under her father's care. The 
mother, not without misgivings, consented. On 12th March Shelley looked for the last 
time on English skies and fields. Accompanied by Mary, little William, his infant 
daughter Clara (born 2d September, 1817), and Miss Clairmont with her child, Shelley 
sailed to Dover, travelled south, and, having crossed Mont Cenis, reached Milan by the 
4th of April, 1818. 

Shelley had hoped to settle on the shores of Como, but a suitable residence could not 
be found. Pisa and Leghorn were successively visited. In the latter city resided Mr. and 
Mrs. Gisborne, with the son of Mrs. Gisborne by a previous marriage, Henry Reveley, a 
young engineer. Mrs. Gisborne had been an old and valued friend of Godwin ; she was a 
woman of fine character— sensitive, modest, cultivated, with much intellectual curios- 
ity : it was indeed a piece of good fortune to find such an acquaintance in a strange 
land. The summer was spent cfelightfully at the Baths of Lucca, under green chestnut j 
boughs, and within hearing of the Lima dashing upon its rocks. During these midsuni- ] 
mer weeks Shelley wrote his translation of Plato's "Banquet"— a rendering which has 
much of the luminous beauty of the original. To please Mary he took up his unfinished 
" Rosalind and Helen," begun at Marlow, and quickly carried it to the close. This poem, 
partly suggested by circumstances in the life of Mary's friend, Isabel Booth (born Bax- 
ter), was published, together with the " Lines written among the Euganean Hills," the 
" Hymn to Intellectual Beauty," and the sonnet " Ozymandias," in the spring of 1819. 



INTRODUCTION. XVll 



Desirous to see her cliihl Allejjra, Miss Clairmont visited Venice in August, with 
Shelley as her companion of the way. It was proposed in a friendly mood by Byron that 
Shelley and his family should ooeupy his villa at Este, ainonK tlie EuKanean hills, and 
that Miss Clairmont should there tor a time enjoy companionship with AUegra. The 
proposal was gladly accepted. Mary arrived with her children at Este, but little Clara 
was seriously ill. it was necessary to consult a physician at Venice ; unfortunately the 
passport had been forgotten, but Shelley's impetuosity overcame the resistance of the 
soldiers. The anxious parents reached Venice on 21th September, only to learn that 
there was no hope, and within an hour little Clara lay dead in her mother's arms. 

Shelley's impressions of Venice and of Byron at this period may be found in his let- 
ters and in the admirable poem "Julian and Bladdalo." The letters exhibit the coarser 
side of Byron's Veneti.in life. In the poem is given a portrait of Byron, drawn without 
the baser lines and darker colors. The incidents there recorded— the ride on the Lido, 
the glory of sunset, viewed from the gondola's covert, the visit to the dreary island of the 
bell and tower, the sight of Allegra in her bright childhood — are probably idealized from 
recollection of what had actually taken place. In the story of the maniac, Shelley inter- 
weaves memories of his own unhappy past. 

Greater designs, however, occupied his thoughts — a tragedy of "Tasso" (of which 
we possess some fragments), a lyrical drama on a subject derived from the Book of Job, 
and the " Prometheus Unbound." In the summer-house at Este the first act of " Pro- 
metheus " was almost completed by the first days of October, 1SI8. The fortitude of a 
heroic saviour of mankind, with his final victory, was a theme which interested Shelley's 
deepest feelings, and aroused the noblest powers of his imagination. 

A warmer climate for the winter than that of North Italy seemed desirable, and in 
November Shelley and his family journeyed to the south. The greatness of antique 
Rome, as seen in its monuments, impressed him deeply, and he began a tale of the Coli- 
seum, which, however, was never finished. But he had chosen Naples as his place of 
winter residence, and thither before the close of November he pursued his way. No 
prose writings in our language are more instinct with radiance and beauty than Slielley's 
fetters which tell of his visit to Pompeii, Vesuvius, Ptestum. Reminiscences of the day 
at Pompeii appear in the "Ode to Naples," written two years later. Yet it is certain 
that Shelley's spirits often drooped during his stay at Naples, and this melancholy mood 
found poetical expression in one of the most pathetic of his lyrical pieces. In the spring 
of 1819 he returned to Rome, saw the ceremonies of Holy Week, and studied classical 
sculpture and Renaissance paintings. The second and third acts of " Prometheus Un- 
bound " were written among the ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, then overgrown with 
flowers and blossoming shrubs. " The blue sky of Rome," he writes, " and tlie effect of 
the vigorous awakening of spring in that divinest climate, and the new life with which 
it drenches the spirit even to intoxication, were the inspiration of this drama." The 
fourth act — a sublime afterthought— was added in December, 1S19, at Florence. 

The days at Rome were darkened in June by the greatest sorrow of Shelley's later 
years. On the 7th of that month his beloved son William died ; the father had watched 
during sixty hours of agony. In the English burial-ground, near the Porta San Paola, 
the little body was laid to rest. Mary's anguish was extreme, all her happiness seemed 
to be forever lost. In orderthat she "might have Sirs. Gisborne's companionship, a little 
country house, the Villa Valsovano, at a short distance from Leghorn, was taken for 
three months, and here, in the glazed terrace at the top of the house, Shelley studied, 
meditated, and basked in the summer sunshine. The tragedy of "The Cenci," begun at 
Rome, and interrupted by the death of his son, now advanced rapidly. The exhibition 
of tyrannous power, in the person of the Count, and of martyr energy in Beatrice, born 
for gentleness and love, was admirably suited for the genius of Shelley. While essen- 
tially real and human, the drama moves among ideal passions. Horror is here ennobled 
by beauty, as Shelley himself describes it in his stanzas suggested by the Medusa of Leo- 
nardo da Vinci. A small edition of his tragedy was struck off in quarto at Leghorn and 
was sent to England to be sold by the OUiers. 

But the work of Shelley's «uni(s mirabilis, 1819, was not yet complete. At Florence, 
whither in October he had removed from the summer residence near Leghorn, he made 
notes upon the sculptures in the galleries. ' At the same time he did not forget England, 
and its social and political needs. In the unfinished " I'hilosophical View of Reform " he 
attempted to investigate the causes of the distress of the English people, and to sugge.st 
the proper remedies. Tidings of the so-called " Manchester Massacre " affected Shelley 
deeply, and led him to write the admirable " Mask of Anarchy," in which he exhorts his 
countrymen to ways of peace and soberness— the true ways which lead to lil)erty. In the 
fantastic satire, " Peter Bell the Third," Wordsworth, turned a Tory, is taken as a type 
of the F.elf-betrayal of genius to the stultifying influences of the world ; the poem is an 
example, not altogether happy, of Shelley's hanilling of the humorous-grotesque. The 
great "Ode to the West Windi" in which tliere is a union of lyrical breadth with lyrical 
intensity unsurpassed in English song, was conceived and partly written in a wood that 
skirted the Arno on a day wlien the autumnal gale was gathering the vapors and rain- 
clouds ; but to Shelley's imagination the wild wind of autumn becomes a harbinger of 
spring. Finally, in hours when he did not feel himself capable ot creative work, he 
translated into graceful English verse Euripides' drama of "The Cyclops." Assuredly 



XVUl i:STH0DUCTION. 



no greater gift to English poetry was ever given by a poet wiUiin a twelvyinoutli than 
Stielley's gift of 1819. 

At Florence on 12th November the son who survived his father, and who was to com- 
fort his mother in her sorrows, Percy Florence, was born. As winter advanced Slielley, 
suffering tv< •m the severe climate, decided to migrate to Pisa, where theair was mild, the 
water singularly pure, and an eminent physician, Vacoa Berlinghieri, might be con- 
sulted. Tlie gi-eater part of his life, from January, 1S20, to the close, was spent in Pisa. 
The presence of Mr. Tigheand Lady Mount cashel (a former pujiilof JIary Wollstonecrafi) 
added to the attractions of the place. In tlie summer of 1820 a move was made to the 
Gisbornes' house at Leghorn, then unoccupied. And here was written that most delight- 
ful of poetical epistles, the letter to Maria Gisborne. Mary had in part recovered her 
spirits, and little Percy was "the merriest babe in the world." The n)other was not 
wholly occupied with domestic cares, for she threw herself with spirit into the study of 
\Greek. while Shelley occupied himself with the holiday task, so happily executed, of 
\translating the Hohieric "Hymn to Mercury" into offava riina. As the heats grew 
more trying, they took refuge at the Baths of San Giuliano, some four miles distant 
from Pisa. During an expedition to Monte San Pellegrino, the resort of pilgrims at cer- 
tain seasonsof the year, Shelley conceived the idea of tlie "Witch of Atlas ; " the poem 
Kvas written in the three days which immediately succeeded his return to the Baths. It 
(would have pleased Mary better if hd had chosen a theme less remote from human sym- 
pathv ; she plavfully reproached him, and her fault-finding drew forth the graceful re- 
joinder which may be read in the introductory stanzas. When a little later he dealt in 
a grotesque manner with events of contemporary history, rhe result was by no means so 
fortunate; "CEdipus Tvrannus, or Swellfoot the Tyrant," which dramatizes, with satir- 
ical intention, the aifair of Queen Caroline, is among the least happy of its authors 
etTorts, yet it has a certain value as presenting a curious facet of his mind. " Swellfoot" 
was published in London in IS-O, but was almost immediately withdrawn from circulation 
by the publisher. 

In tlio autumn (1820) Shelley, with his wife and infant son, )-eturned to Pisa. They 
had t>een relieved of the presence of Pliss Clairmont, who had taken a situation as gov- 
erness at Florence ; but Shelley corresponded with her, and took the kindest interest in 
all that concerned her. Friends and acquaintances gathered around him at Pisa — his 
cousin and former schoolfellow, Thomas Medwin, now a captain of dragoons, lately re- 
turned from India; the Irishman, Count Taaffe, who regarded himself as laureate of the 
city, and a learned critic of Italian literature ; Sgricci, the celebrated improvisatore ; 
and Pri!ice IMavrocordato, son of the ex-hospodar of Wallachia, young, ardent, cultured, 
who was to become the foremost statesman of the Greek Revolution. Through a some- 
time Professor of Physics at the University of Pisa, Francesco Pacchiani, Shelley was 
Introduced to Emelia, the daughter of Count Viviani, who had teen confined for two years 
in the Convent of St. Anna. Mary and Shelley were both deeply interested in the beautiful 
Italian girl. Iler youth, her charm, her sorrows, awoke in Shelley all the idealizing 
power of his imagination ; she became to him, as it were, a symbol of all tliat is radiant 
and divine, all that is to be pursued and never attained— the absolute of beauty, truth, 
and love. While for the man she was a living and breathing woman, fascinating, and an 
object of tenderest solicitude, for the poet she rose into the avatar of the ideal. With 
such a feeling towards Emilia he wrote his " Epipsychidion ; " "It is," he tells Mr. 
Gisborne, "a mystery; as to real rte.-.h and blood, you know I do not deal in these 
articles. ... I desired Oilier not to circulate this piece except to the cweToi, and even 
thev, it seems, are inclined to approximate me to the circle of a servant-girl and her 
sweetheart." As had happened so of ten before, Shelley in due time passed out of his 
idealizing mood. "The Epipsychidion," he afterwards wrote, " I cannot look at; the 
person whom it celebrates was a cloud instead of a Juno ; and poor Ixion starts from 
the centaur that was the offspring of his own embrace." The same idealizing ardor 
which found poetical expression in "Epipsychidion," gave its elevated tone to Shelley's 
essay in criticism, the " Defence of Poetry," written in February and March, 1821, as a 
reply to Peacock's " Four Ages of Poetry." It is perhaps the most admirable of his 
prose writings, and serves as an undesigned exposition of the processes of his own 
mind as an imaginative creator. 

The summer of 1821 like that of the preceding year was spent at the Baths of San 
Giuliano. A friendship had sprung up in Pisa between Shelley and a young half-pay 
lieutenant of dragoons, Edward Wdliams, who, with his wife, had been attracted to 
Italy partly by IMedwin's promise that he should be introduced to Shelley. The AVill- 
iamses had taken a charming villa four miles from Shelley's residence at the Baths, and 
communication w-as easy and delightful by means of a boat on the canal which was fed 
by the waters of the Serchio. Edward "\Villiams was frank, simple, kind-hearted, and 
not without a lively interest in literature ; Jane had a sweet insinuating grace, and 
could gratify Shelley's ear with the melodies of her guitar. The days passed happily, 
and might have passed without a memorable incident save for an event not immediately 
connected with the dwellers at the Baths. In February, 1821, occurred the death of 
Keats at Rome ; but tidings did not reach Shelley until April. He had known Keats, but 
had never felt a deep personal attection for him. The genius of the young poet, how- 
ever, \.as honored by Shelley, who, on hearing of his illness in the summer of 1830, had 



INTRODUCTION. xix 



invited him to Pisa. Deeply movod. tlu-onj^h his iiiiagiDation rather than his affections, 
by tlie story of the death of Keats, Shelley did homage to his memory in the elegy of 
"Adonais," which talccs its place in litei-alure lieside the laments of Moschus for Bion 
and of Milton for Lycidas. Uet'ore its i-lose the poem rises into an impassioned hymn 
not of death but of immortal lite. 

The pleasure of a visit to liyron at Ravenna in August was more than marred by 
Byron's sutlden disclosure of certain shocking accusations which had been brought 
against Shelley in his domestic life. An ardent letter of vindication, to be forwarded by 
Byron to the English Consul at Venice, was written by Mary ; but it never reached Mr. 
Hoppner, for whom it was intended, and was fountl amon'g Byron's papers after his 
death. "That my beloved Shelley should stand tluis slandered in your minds,"— so 
Mary wrote — "he the gentU^st and most humane of creatures — is more painful to me, oh ! 
far more painful than words can express." If they could but escape to some .solitude far 
from the world and its calumnies ! Or, since this "was impossiVile, if they could gather 
around tliem in their Pisan home a little cii'cle of true and loyal friends! Of these Byron 
—it was hoped — might be one, for he was about to quit Kavenna, and he desired them to 
hire a house for himself and tlH> Countess Guiccioli at Pisa. Leigh Hunt, ai home in 
England, had for some time past been seriously ill ; he also might form one of their 
company, and the new periodical, The Liberal, of which there had been talk, might be 
started for his benefit by the literary coalition. 

"I am full of thoughts and plans," Shelley wrote to Hunt in August, 1821. Not one 
of his larger designs was achieved, but in the summer or early autumn of that year he 
rapidly produced his " Hellas." remarkable as an idealized treatment of contemporary 
events". In the " Persae" of Jilschj-lus he found a precedent and to some extent a model 
for his i)oeti'; dealing with current facts. The phantom of JIahomet II. is suggested by 
the figure of Darius in the " Persians ;" but instead of the ode of lamentation which 
closes the Greek play, the lyrical prophecy with which " Hellas" ends is a song of joy 
and love for the wliole world. 

" Lord Byron is established here,'" Shelley wrote from Pisa in January, 1822, " and 
we are constant companions." They rode together ; practised pistol-shooting or played 
billiards ; interchanged their views on literary and social questions. Shellej' felt towards 
Byron as towards a great creative power, which subdued liim to admiration; yet there 
were times when he was repelled by proofs of the coarser fibre of Byron's moral nature. 
The opening year brought a new acquaintance to Pisa— Edward John Trelawny, a young 
Cornish gentleman, who had led a life of various adventure by sea and land. Trelawny, 
" with his knight-errant aspect, dark, handsome, an<l mustachioed," interested Shelley 
and JIary more than any acquaintance whom they had made since the departure of 
JIavrocordato. How Shelley charmed Trelawny may be read in the delightful " Recol- 
lections "of tlie latter, which give us the most vivid image of the poet in the closing 
months of his life. Trelawny. Williams, and Shelley were lovers of the sea. It was 
agreed that a boat should b'l built, and that a seaside house should be taken for the 
summer at Spezzia. Meanwhile Shelley worked now and again at his historical play of 
" Charles I.," and wrote some of those exquisite lyrical poems inspired by the grace and 
subtle attraction of Jane Williams, the wife of his young and bright-tempered com 
pan ion. 

Casa Jlagni, the house taken for the summer migrants, stands on the margin of the 
sea, near tlie fishing-village of San Terenzo on the eastern side of the Bay of Spezzia. 
The first days were saddened by a grief to all, but in a special degree a grief to Miss 
Clairmont— the death at the convent of Bagnacavallo of little Allegra. Mary was in 
delicate health, and found the lonely house by the sea oppressive to her spirits. Shelley's 
overwrought nerv(>s conjured up visionary forms : on one occasion the figure of Allegra 
rose smiling upon him fro!u the moonlit s'ea, claiiping its hands for joy. But when the 
long-expected boat rounded the jioint of Porto Venore all was gladness and bustle of 
expectation. " We have now," wrote Williams, who with Jane occupied a part of Casa 
Magni, " a perfect plaything for the summer." While during the heats of the June days 
Shelley rested in his boat, or gazed from shore on the splendors of the sea, or on moonlit 
nights sat among the rocks, he wrote the noble fragments of his last great unfinished 
poem. "The Tritimph of Life." It contains perhaps the wisest thoughts of his whole 
life ; it expresses a mood of pathetic renunciation, with insight reached after error, and 
serenity attained through passion. In its general d(^sin;n and in the form of Terse it 
follows Petrarch's "Triiuupli of Love;" in the details of its unagery it sometimes 
approaches the manner of Dante. 

The return, to Casa Magni of Claire, after a couple of weeks' absence, was almost 
immediately followed by a calamity which threatened serious risk to Mary's life— a 
dangerous miscarriage. By Shelley's energy and promptitude her life was saved ; but 
the strain upon his nerves again caused him"to he troubled by frequent visions. On 19th 
June news came which rejoiced his heart— Leiirh Hunt and his family had arrived in 
Italy. It was glorious mitlsummcr weather; the boat, with Shelley and Williams on 
Tioard. was put to sea, and after a prosjierous run anchor was cast in the port of Leg- 
horn. Next morning the long-parted friends. Hunt and Shelley, met. "I am inexpres- 
sibly delighted," cried Shelley, " you cannot think how inexpressibly happy it makes 
me." " He was looking better," wrote Hunt, " than I had ever seen him ; we talked of 



XX INTRODUCTION. 



a thousand things— we anticipated a thousand pleasures." On Monday, 8th July, the 
aspect of the sky seemed to portend a change of weather; but the breeze was favorable 
for a return to Lerici. Between one and two o'clock the boat left tlie harbor. It was 
observed about ten miles out at sea, ol¥ Via Reggio ; then the haze of a summer storm 
hid it from view. 

Meanwhile Mary, wlio had been loath to allow Shelley to leave her, and Jane Williams 
watched and waited. Days of misery and dreadful suspense went by. At length the 
widowed women could endure it no longer, and posted to Pisa to make inquiries of Byron 
and Hunt. Even then all hope was not extinct ; the boat might have been blown to Cor- 
sica or Elba. Mary and Jane hastened back to Lerici, Trelawny having undertaken to 
renew the search in the direction of Leghorn. On the evening of 10th July he returned ; 
" All was over," writes Mary ; '• all was quiet now ; they had been found washed on 
shore." 

Two holies had been thrown upon the lieach, one near Via Reggio, the other in Tuscan 
territory. The tall, slight figure, the volume of Sophocles, and Keats's poems, identified 
the body of Shelley. According to the strict laws of Italian quarantine, the corpses 
should have remained under quicklime in the sands. But by special permission arrange- 
ments were made for their cremation. Trelawny, Byron and Hunt were present. The 
heart of Slielley was snatcheil by Trelawny from the flames ; the ashes were reverently 
collected. In the old Protestant burial-ground at Rome, where lay the body of Shelley's 
son, hard by the tomb of Cains Cestius, the casket containing the ashes was committed 
to the ground 

Mary Slielley survived her husband for nearly thirty years ; she died on 21st Febru- 
ary, 1851. Cliarles Bysshe, the son of Shelley's first wife, died in early life. Shelley's 
last-born son, Percy Florence, succeeded to the baronetcy on the death of his grand- 
father, in April, 1844. He died on 5th December, 1889. A monument to Shelley, by 
Weekes, is erected in the parish church of Christchurch, Hants. The relics, portraits, 
journals, manuscripts, and letters of Hhelley and lilary, duly ordered by Lady Shelley's 
hands, are preserved at Boscombe JIanor, near Bournemouth. 

All who love Shelley's poetry are under inexpressible obligations to Mary Shelley, 
who gave to the world the great body of his posthumous writings, edited his works with 
loving care, though not with infallible accuracy, and added the inestimable memorials 
of his life, which may be read ia her notes to the poems. Our debt is also great to 
three distinguished Shelley s(^holars : to Dr. Garnett, whose " Relics of Shelley," recov- 
ered from manuscripts which are often a tangle of corrections, form the most precious 
addition to Shelley's poetical works which has appeared since the publication of the Pos- 
thumous Poems, 1834 ; to Mr. W. M. Rossetti, and to Jlr. Forman. Mr. Rossetti increased 
the body of Shelley's published poetry by several pieces of value, and in particular adtled 
largely to the known fragments of Charles I. from a manuscript most difficult to 
decipher. His principles in dealing with the text led him to some changes which cannot 
be sustained, but in not a few instances he recovered the true text by happy emendation. 
Mr. Forman added to the published poems of Shelley the second part of the " Dasmon of 
the World," and some other pieces. His devotion to the author of his choice, his untir- 
ing zeal as a collector, his learning, his accuracy, his good .iudgnient, have made him 
our chief living authority on all that relates to Shelley's writings. The present volume 
has gained much from Mr. Forman's labors ; it is impossible but that it should be so. In 
its general plan, however, it differs materially from his editions, which reprint in 
chronological order the several volumes published during Shelley's life. In giving 
"The Revolt of Islam" rather than " Laon and Cythna," which Mr. Forman reprints, 
we follow the example of Mrs. Shelley ; but in Notes to the present volume the readings 
of " Laon and Cythna " will be found. Mr. Forman's annotated edition is unquestionably 
that to which appeal must be made in any question of doubt on any point of Shelley 
scholarship. But perhaps if Mr. Rossetti modified the text of the early editions some- 
what too freely, Mr. Forman has sometimes been over-conservative of peculiarities of 
spelling and obvious errors of punctuation. When these cloud the sense, it seems per- 
missible to make a correction in an edition designed for general use. Yet I should be 
slow to alter erroneous punctuation, if the meaning be not obscured, for such punctua- 
tion may have a metrical value. As to spelling, while in several instances (as "blosmy," 
"glode"),it is desirable to preserve Shelley's spelling, it would be impossible, or at 
least intolerable, to follow his manuscripts in every instance ("thier" for "their," 
" mein " for " mien," etc.). A great poet is not of an age but for all time. While texts 
of Shakspeare, Milton, and Pope, prepared for specialists, may rightly retain the pecu- 
liarities of the early editions, there must also be texts of Shakspeare, IMilton, and Pope, 
in which every obstacle to the reader's pleasure, caused by the early printers, ought to 
be removed. 

All ascertained poems which have appeared in previous editions are included in the 
present volume. " The Wandering Jew " is not, and probablv ought not, to be given as 
the work of Shelley. Two doubtful pieces— "The Dinner Party Anticipated, A Para- 
phrase of Horace's 19th Ode, B. III.," and " The Magic Horse, translated from the 
Italian by Cristofano Bronzino" (given in the appendix on Mr. Forman's library edition) 
—are excluded as of uncertain authorship. A considerable body of Shelley's early verse 
existing in a manuscript book owned by the poet's grandson, Mr. Esdaile, remains 



INTRODUCTION. XXI 



imprinted. Jlr. Esdaile, who kindly allowed mo to print certain poenis of biographical 
interest in my " Life of Shelley," has expressed his desire that they should not now be 
reprinted. It was, as he believes, the wish of Shelley's dauf,'hter laiithe th;>t th" 
poems in this manuscript volume should not be included in an edition of her father's 
poetical works. 

An arrangement of the poems differing somewhat from that of Mrs. Shelley has 
involved the displacing of a few paragraphs of her Notes, so that these paragraphs may 
be read in connection with the poems to which they refer. In this particular the treat- 
ment of Jlr. Rossetti has been adopted. The fragments of verse are placed among the 
poems of the years to wliich they respectively belong, as they have been placed by Mr. 
Forman, but in a somewhat different order. They have perhaps a better chance of being 
read with interest in such an arrangement as this than wlien they are massed together 
as a group by themselves. The titles of the shorter fragments are those of Mr. Forman, 
in cases where his titles seemed inevitably right ; I have not felt at liberty to adopt his 
titles in other cases, and have proposed, for convenience of reference, titles of my own 
devising. Perhaps I h.ive ventured too far in naming a fragment on p. 399 " Song of the 
Furies." A few corrections in the text of some of the "Juvenilia" are made from 
Shelley's manuscript. 



EDWARD DO"\VDEN. 



PREFACE BY MRS. SHELLEY 

TO FIRST COLLECTED EDITION, 1839. 



Obstacles have long existed to my presenting the public with a perfect edition of 
Shelley's Poems. These being at last happily removed, I hasten to fulfil an important 
dut.y, — that of giving the productions of a sublime genius to the world, with all tlie cor- 
rectness possible, and of, at the same time, detailing the history of those productions, as 
they sprang, living and warm, from his heart and brain. I abstain from any remark on 
the occurrences of his private life, except inasmuch as the passions which they engen- 
dered inspired his poetry. This is not the time to relate the truth ; and I should reject 
any coloring of tlie trutli. No account of these events has ever been given at all ap- 
proaching reality in their details, either as regards himself or others ; nor shall I further 
allude to them than to remark that the errors of action committed by a man as noble and 
generous as Shelley, may, as far as he only is concerned, be fearlessly avowed by those 
who loved him, in the firm conviction that, were they judged impartially, his character 
would stand in fairer and brighter light than that of any contemporarj'. Whatever 
faults he had ought to find extenuation among his fellows, since tliey prove him to be 
human ; without them, the exalted nature of his soul would have raised him into some- 
thing divine. 

The qualities that struck any one newly introduced to Shelley were, — First, a gentle 
and cordial goodness that animated his intercourse viith warm affection and helpful 
sympathy. The other, the eagerness and ardor with which he was attached to the cause 
of human happiness anil improvement ; and the fervent eloquence with which he dis- 
cussed such .subjects. His conversation was marked by its happy abundance, and the 
beautiful language in which he clothed his poetic ideas and philosophical notions. To 
defecate life in its misery audits evil was the ruling passion of his soul ; he dedicated to 
it every power of his mind, every pulsation of his heart. He looked on political freedom 
as the direct agent to effect the happiness of mankind ; and thus any new-sprung hope 
of liberty inspired a joy and an exultation more intense and wild than he could have felt 
for any personal advantage. Those who have never experienced the workings of passion 
on gener.al and unselfish subjects cannot understand this ; and it must be difficult of 
comprehension to the younger generation rising around, since they cannot remember 
the scorn and hatred with whicli the partisans of reform were regarded some few years 
ago, nor the persecutions to wliieh they were exposed. He had been from youtli the 
victim of the state of feeling inspired by the reaction of the French Revolution ; and 
believing firmly in the justice and excellence of his views, it caunut be wondered that a 
nature as sensitive, as impetuous, and as generous as his, sliould put its whole force into 
the attempt to alleviate for others tlie evils of those systems from which he had himself 
sulTered. ^lany advantages attended his birth ; he spurned them all when balanced with 
what he considered his duties. He was generous to imprudence, devoted to heroism. 

These characteristics breathe througiiout his poetry. The struggle for human weal ; 
the resolution firm to martyrdom ; the impetuous pursuit, the glad ti'iumph in good ; 
the determination not to despair ; — such were the features that marked those of his 
works which he regarded with most complacency, as sustained by a lofty subject and 
useful aim. 

In addition to these, his poems may be divided into two classes, —the purely imagi- 
native, and those which sjirang from the emotions of his heart. Among the former maj' 
be classed the "Witch of the Atlas," " Adonais," and his latest composition, left imper- 
fect, the "Triumph of Life." In the first of these particularly he gave the reins to his 
fancy, and luxuriated in every idea as it rose ; in all there is that sense of mystery which 
formed an essential portion of his perception of life — a clinging to the subtler inner 
spirit, rather than to the outward form — a curious and metaphysical anatomy of human 
passion and perception. 

The second class is, of course, the more popular, as appealing at once to emotions 
common to us all ; some of these rest on the passion of love ; others on grief and despond- 
ency ; others on the sentiments inspired by natural objects. She ley's conception of 

xxii * 



PREFACE. xxiii 



love was exalted, absorhinsx, allied to all that is purest and nolilcst in our nature, and 
warme 1 by earnest passion ; such it appears when he {jave it a voice in verse. Yet he 
was usually averse to expressin};: these feelings, except uhenhijihly idealized ; and many 
of his more beautiful elTusions he had cast aside unfinished, and tliey were never seen \>y 
me till after I had lost him. Others, as for instance '• Rosalind and Helen " and "Lines 
written aiiion;^ tlie Eui^anean Hills," I found among ids papers by cluince ; and witli 
so:ue diflfienlty nrured liim to complete them. There are others, such as the '" Ode to the 
Skylaric "" and " Tiie Cloud," which, in the opinion of many criticrs, bear a purer poetical 
stamp tlian any of his productions. They were written as his mind prompted : listening 
to the c irollinic of tha bird, aloft in the azure sky of Italy ; or marking the cloud as it 
sped across the heavens, while he floated in his boat on the Thames. 

, No poet was ever warmed by a more genuine and unforced inspiration. His extreme 
sensibility gave tli9 intensity of passion to his iutellectual piu-suits ; and rendered his 
mind keenly alive to every perception of outward objects, as well as to his internal sen- 
sations. Such a gift is, among the sad vicissitudes of hmnan life, the disappointmenls 
we me*t, an 1 the gillin-,' sense of our own mistakes and errors, fraught with pain; to 
escape fro.n such, hv- delivered up his soul to poetry, and felt happy when he sheltered 
himself, from the influence of human sympathies, iii the wildest regions of fancy. His 
im i.ciii iti >n li n b '^n termed too brilliant, his thoughts too subtle. He loved to idealize 
reality ; and this is a taste shared by few. We are willing to ha''e our passing whims 
exalted into passions, for this gratifies our vanity ; but tew of us understand or sympa- 
thize with tlie en leavor to ally the love of abstract beauty, and adoration of abstract 
good, the TO ayaSoi' ical to (caAdi/ of the Socratio philosophers, with our sympathies with 
our kin I. In tbis, Shelley resembled Plato; both taking more delight'in the ab.stract 
and the ideal than in the special and tangible. This did not result from imitation ; for it 
was not till Shelley resided in Italy that he made Plato his study. He then translated 
his "Symposium" and his "Ion ; " and the English language boasts of no more brilliant 
composition thin Plato's Praise of Love translated by Shelley. To return to his own 
poetry. The luxury of imagination, which sought nothing beyond itself (as a child 
burdens itself witli spring flowers, thinking of no use beyond the enjoyment of gather- 
ing them), often sliowe I itself in his versos: they will only be appreciated bv minds 
which have resemblance to his own; and the mystic subtlety of many of his thoughts 
will share the same fate. Tlie metaphysical strain that characterizes "much of what he 
has written w.as, indeel, the portion of his works to which, ajjart from those whose 
scope was to awaken mankind to aspirations fur what he considered the true and good, 
he was hinnelf particularly attached. There is much, however, that speaks to the 
many. When he would consent to disiniss these huntings after the obscure (which, en- 
twined witli his nature as they were, he did with difficulty), no poet ever expressed in 
sweeter, more h-virt-reaching, or more passionate verse, the gentler or more forcible 
emotions of the soul. 

A wisi frienJ once wrote to Shelley : " You are still very young, and in certain essen- 
tial respects you do not yet sufficiently perceive that you aVe so." It is seldom that the 
young know what youth is, till they have got beyond its ]ieriod ; and time was not given 
hiin to attain this knowledge. It must be remembered that there is the stamp of sucli 
inexperience on all he wrote ; he had not completed his nine-and-twenf ieth year when he 
died. The calm of middle life did not add the seal of the virtues which adorn maturity 
to those generated by the vehement spirit of youth. Through life also he was a martyr 
to ill-health, and constant pain wound up his nerves to a pitch of susceptibilil v that ren- 
dered his views of life different from those of a man in the enjoyment of healthy sensa- 
tions. Perfectly gentle and forbearing in manner, he suffered a good deal of internal 
irritability, or rather excitement, and his fortitude to bear was almost always on the 
stretch; and thu.s, during a short life, had gone through more experience of sensation 
than many whise existence is protracted. "If I die to-morrow," he said, on the eve of 
his unanticipated deal;h, " I have lived to be older than mv father." The weight of 
thought and feeling burdened him heavily ; vou read his sufferings in his attenuated 
frame, while yon perceived the mastery he held over tliem in his animated countenance 
and brilliant eyes. 

He died, and the world showed no outward sign. But his influence over mankind, 
though slow m growth, is fa -.t augmenting , and, in the ameliorations that have taken 
place in the political state of his country, we may trace in part the operation of his ar- 
duous struggles. His spirit gathers peace in its how state from the sen.si- thai, though 
late, his exertions w«re not made in vain, and in the progress of the liberty he so fondly 
loved. 

He died, and his place, among those who knew him intimately, has never been filled 
up. He walked beside them like a spirit of good to comfort and benefit— to enlighten 
the darkness of life with irradiations of genius, to cheer it with his sympathy and love 
Any one. once attached to Shelley, must feel all other affections, however true and fond 
as wasted on barren soil in comparison. It is our best consolation to know that such a 
pure-minded and exalted being was oii(<e amon^r us, and now exists where we hope one 
day to join him ;— although the intolerant, in their blindness, poured down anathemas 
th > Spirit of Good, who can judge the IieaCt, never rejected him. 

In the notes appended to the poems I have endeavored to narrate the origin and 



XXIV PREFACE. 



history of each. The loss of nearly all letters and papers which refer to his early life 
renders the execution more imperfect than it would otherwise have been. I have, how- 
ever, the liveliest recollection of all that was done and said during the period of my 
knowing him. Every impression is as clear as if stamped yesterday, and I have no ap- 
prehension of any mistake in my statements as far as they go. In other respects I am 
indeed incompetent : but I feel the importance of the task, and regard it as my most 
sacred duty. I endeavor to fulfil it in a manner he would himself approve ; and hope, in 
this publication, to lay the first stone of a monument due to Shelley's genius, his suffer- 
ings, and his virtues. 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WOKKS. 



QUEEN MAB : 

A PHILOSOPHICAL POEM, WITH NOTES. 

ficrasez riufanie ! 

Correspondance de Voltaire. 

Avia Pieridum peragro loca, nullius ante 
Trita solo ; juvat integros accederefonteis; 
Atque haurire : juvatque novos decerpere 
flores. 

Unde prius nulli velarint tempora musse. 
Primuni quod maguis doceo de rebus ; et 

arctis 
Religionum animos nodis exsolvere pergo. 
Lucret. lib. iv. 

TO HARRIET ***** 

Whose is the love that gleaming 

through the world. 
"Wards off the poisonous arrow of its 
scorn ? 
Whose is the warm and partial praise, 
Virtue's most sweet reward V 

Beneath whose looks did my reviving 

soul 
Riper in truth and virtuous daring 
grow ? 
Whose ej'es have I gazed fondly on, 
And loved mankind the more ? 

Harriet ! on thine :— thou wert my 

purer mind ; 
Thou wert the inspiration of my song; 
Thine are these early wilding flowers, 
Though garlanded by me. 
Then press into thy breast this pledge 

of love : 
And know, though time may change 
and years may roll. 
Each floweret gathered in my heart 
It consecrates to thine. 

QUEEN MAB. 
I. 
How wonderful is Death, 
Death and his brother Sleep ! 



One, pale as yonder waning moon 
With lips of lurid blue ! 

The other, rosy as the morn 
When throned on ocean's wave 
It blushes o'er the world : 

Yet both so passing wonderful ! 

Hath then the gloomy Power 
Whose reign is in the tainted sepul- 
chres 
Seized on her sinless soul ? 
Must then that peerless form 
Which love and admiration cannot 

view 
Without a beating heart, those azure 

veins 
Which steal like streams along a field 
of snow. 
That lovely outline, which is fair 
As breathing marble, perish ? 
Must putrefaction's breath 
Leave nothing of this heavenly 
sight 
But loathsomeness and ruin ? 
Spare nothing but a gloomy theme. 
On which the lightest heart might mor- 
alize ? 
Or is it only a sweet slumber 

Stealing o'er sensation. 
Which the breath of roseate morning 
Chaseth into darkness y 
Will lanthe wake again, 
And give that faithful bosom joy 
Whose .;,leepless spirit waits to catch 
Light, life and rapture from her 
smile ? 

Yes ! she will wake again, 
Although her glowing limbs are mo- 
tionless. 
And silent those sweet lips. 
Once breathing eloquence. 
That might have soothed a tiger's 
rage. 
Or thawed the cold heart of a con- 
queror. 
Her dewy eyes are closed. 
And on their lids, whose texture tine 



QUEEN MAB. 



Sctarce hides the dark blue orbs be- 
neath, 

The baby Sleep Is pillowed : 

Her golden tresses shade 

The bosom's stainless pride, 
Curling like tendrils of the pai'asite 

Around a marble column. 

Hark ! whence that rushing sound? 
'T is like the wondrous strain 
That round a lonely ruin swells, 
AVliich, wandering on the echoing 
shore. 
The enthusiast hears at evening : 
'T is softer than the west wind's sigh; 
'T is wilder than the unmeasured 

notes 
Of that strange lyre whose strings 
The genii of the breezes sweep : 

Those lines of rainbow light 
Are like the moonbeams when they 
fall 
Through some cathedral Avindow, but 
the teints 
Are such as may not find 
Comparison on earth. 

Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen ! 
Celestial coursers paw the unyielding 

air; 
Their fihny pennons at her word they 

furl. 
And stop obedient to the reins of light: 
These the Queen of spells drew in. 
She spread a charm around the spot. 
And leaning graceful from the ethereal 
car. 
Long did she gaze, and silently, 
Upon the slumbering maid. 
Oh ! not the visioned poet in his 

dreams. 
When silvery clouds float through the 

wildered brain, 
"When every sight of lovely, wild and 
grand 
Astonishes, enraptures, elevates. 
When fancy at a glance combines 
The wondrous and the beautiful, — 
So bright, so fair, so wild a shape 
Hath ever yet beheld, 
As that which reined the coursers of 
the air. 
And poured the magic of her gaze 
Upon the maiden's sleep. 

The broad and yellow moon 
Shone dimly through her form — 

That form of faultless symmetry ; 

The pearly and pellucid car 
Moved not the moonlight's line : 
'T was not an earthly pageant : 

Those who had looked upon the sight, 



Passing all human glory. 
Saw not the yellow moon, 
Saw not the mortal scene, 
Heard not the night-wind's rush, 
Heard not an earthly sound, 
Saw but the fairy pageant. 
Heard but the heavenly strains 
That filled the lonely dwelling. 

The Fairy's frame was slight, yoi 

fibrous cloud, 
That catches but the palest tinge oj 

even. 
And which the straining eye can hard! 

seize 
When melting into eastern twilight'! 

shadow. 
Were scarce so thin, so slight ; but th 

fair star 
That gems the glittering coronet oj 

morn, j 

Sheds not a light so mild, so powerfu]| 
As that which, bursting from thi 

Fairy's form. 
Spread a purpurea! halo round th 

scene, 
Yet with an undulating motion. 
Swayed to her outline gracefully. 

From her celestial car 
The Fairy Queen descended. 
And thrice she waved her wand 
Circled with wreaths of amaranth 
Her thin and misty form 
Moved with the moving air, 
And the clear silver tones, 
As thus she spoke, were such 
As are unheard by all but gifted eai| 

FAIRY. 

Stars ! your balmiest influencT 

shed ! 

Elements ! your wi-ath suspended 
Sleep, Ocean, in the rocky bounc 
That circle thy domain ! 
Let not a breath be seen to stir 
Around yon grass-grown ruin 
height, 
Let even the restless gossamer 
Sleep on the moveless air ! 
Soul of lanthe ! thou, 
Judged alone worthy of the envie 

boon. 
That waits the good and the sincerei 

that waits 
Those who have struggled, and wit 

resolute will 
Vanquished earth's pride and meai 

ness, burst the chains. 
The icy chains of custom, and ha\ 
shone 



QUEEN MAB. 



iTbe dav-stars of their age ;— Soul of 
lanthe ! 
Awake ! arise ! 

Sudden arose 
lauthe's Soul ! it stood 
All beautiful in naked puritj', 
The perfect semblance of its bodily 

frame. 

Instinct with inexpressible beauty and 
grace, 
Each stain of earthliness 
Had passed away, it reassumed 
Its native dignity, and stood 
Immortal amid ruin. 



Upon the couch the body lay 
Wrapt in the death of slumber : 
Its features were fixed and meaning- 
less, 
Yet animal life was there, 
And every organ yet performed 
Its natural functions : 't was a sight 
Of wonder to behold the body and soul. 
The self-same lineaments, the same 
Marks of identity were there : 
Yet, oh, how different ! One aspires to 

Heaven, 

Pants for its sempiternal heritage, 
And ever-changing, ever-rising still, 

Wantons in ejidless being. 
The other, for a time the unwilling 

sport 
Of circumstance and passion, struggles 

on ; 

Fleets through its sad duration rapidly : 
Then like an useless and worn-out ma- 
chine. 
Rots, perishes, and passes. 



Spirit ! who hast dived so deep ; 

Spirit ! who hast soared so high ; 

Thou the fearless, thou the mild. 

Accept the boon thy worth hath 

earned. 

Ascend the car with me. 

SPIRIT. 

Do I dream ? Is this new feeling 
But a visioned ghost of slumber ? 
If indeed I am a soul, 
A free, a disembodied soul, 
Speak again to me. 



I am the Fairy Mab ; tome 't is given 
vThe wonders of the human world to 
keep : 



The secrets of the immeasurable past. 
In the unfailing consciences of men. 
Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I 

find : 
The future, from the causes which arise 
In each event, I gather : not the sting 
Which retributive memory implants 
In the hard bosom of the selfish man ; 
Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb 
Which virtue's votary feels when he 

sums up 
The thoughts and actions of a well- 
spent day 
Are unforeseen, unregistered bj^ me : 
And it is yet permitted me, to rend 
The veil of mortal frailty, that the 

spirit 
Clothed in its changeless purity, may 

know 
How soonest to accomplish the great 

end 
For which it hath its being, and may 

taste 
That peace, which in the end all life 

will share. 
This is the meed of virtue ; happy Soul, 
Ascend the car with me ! 

The chains of earth's immurement 
Fell from lanthe's spirit ; 
They shrank and brake like bandages 
of straw 
Beneath a weakened giant's strength. 

She know her glorious change. 
And felt in apprehension uncon- 
trolled 
New raptures opening round : 
Each day-dream of her mortal life, 
Each frenzied vision of the slumbers 
That closed each well-spent day, 
Seemed now to meet reality. 
The Fairy and the Soul proceeded ; 
The silver clouds disparted ; 
And as the car of magic they ascended. 
Again the speechless music swelled, 
Again the coursers of the air 
Unfurled their azure pennons, and tho 
Queen 
Shaking the beamy reins 
Bade them pursue their way. 

The magic car moved on. 
The night was fair, and* countless 

stars 
Studded heaven's dark blue vault,— 

Just o'er the eastern wave 
Peeped the first faint smile of 
morn :— 
The magic car moved on — 
From the celestial hoofs 
The atmosphere in flaming sparkles 
flew, 



QUEEN MAB. 



And where the burning wheels 
Eddied above the mountains loftiest 
peak, 
Was traced a line of lightning. 
Now it flew far above a rock, 
The utmost verge of earth, 
The rival of the Andes, whose dark 
brow 
Lowered o'er the silver sea. 

Far, far below the chariot's path, 
Calm as a slumbering babe, 
Tremendous Ocean lay. 
The mirror of its stillness showed 
The pale and waning stars, 
The chariot's fiery track. 
And the gray light of morn 
Tingeing those fleecy clouds 
That canopied the dawn. 
Seemed it, that the chariot's way 
Lay through the midst of an immense 

concave, 
Radiant with million constellations, 
tinged 
With shades of infinite color, 
And semicircled with a belt 
Flashing incessant meteors. 

The magic car moved on. 
As they approached their goal 
The coursers seemed to gather speed ; 
The sea no longer was distinguished ; 
earth 
Appeared a vast and shadowy 
sphere ; 
The sun's unclouded orb 
Rolled through the black con- 
cave : 
Its rays of rapid light 
Parted around the chariot's swifter 
course, 
And fell, like ocean's feathery spray 
Dashed from the boiling surge 
Before a vessel's prow. 

The magic car moved on. 
Earth's distant orb appeared 
The smallest light that twinkles in the 
heaven ; 
Whilst round the chariot's way 
Innumerable systems rolled, 
And countless spheres diffused 
An ever-varying glory. 
It was a sight of wonder : some 
Were horned like the crescent moon ; 
Some shed a mild and silver beam 
Like Hesiierus o'er the western sea : 
Some dashed athwart with trains of 

flame. 
Like worlds to death and ruin 
driven ; 



Some shone like suns, and, as the 
chariot past. 
Eclipsed all other light. 

Spirit of Nature ! here ! 
In this interminable wilderness 
Of worlds, at whose immensity 
Even soaring fancy staggers. 
Here is thy fitting temple. 
Yet not the lightest leaf 
That quivers to the passing breeze 
Is lesc instinct with thee : 
Yet not the meanest worm 
That lurks in graves and fattens on 
the dead 
Less shares thy eternal breath. 

Spirit of Nature ! thou ! 
Imperishable as this scene. 
Here is thy fitting temple. 

II. 

If solitude hath ever led thy steps 
To the wild ocean's echoing shore, 
And thou hast lingered there, | 

Until the sun's broad orb 
Seemed resting on the burnished! 
wave, 
Thou must have marked the lines 
Of purple gold, that motionless 

Hung o'er the sinking sphere : 
Thou must have marked the billowy, ; 

clouds 
Edged with intolerable radiancy 
Towering like rocks of jet 
Crowned with a diamond wreath 
And yet there is a moment, 
When the sun's highest point 
Peeps like a star o'er ocean's westerni 

edge. 

When those far clouds of feathery gold. 
Shaded with deepest purple, gleam 
Like islands on a dark blue sea ; 
Then has thy fancy soared above th€ 
earth. 
And furled its wearied wing 
Within the Fairy's fane. 



Yet not the golden islands 
Gleaming in yon flood of light. 

Nor the feathery curtains 
Stretching o'er the sun's bright 

couch. 
Nor the burnished ocean waves 
Paving that gorgeous dome, , 
So fair, so wonderful a sight 
As Mab's ethereal palace could afford. 
Yet likest evening's vault, that faery 
Hall ! I 

As Heaven, low resting on the wave, ill 
spread 



QUEEN MAB. 



Its floors of fliishiiig light, 
Its vast and azure dome, 
Its fertile golden islands 
Floating on a silver sea ; 
Whilst suns their mingling beamings 

darted 
Through clouds of circumambient 
darkness, 
And pearly battlements around 
Looked o'er the immense of Heaven. 

The magic car no longer moved. 
The Fairv and the Spirit 
Entered the Hall of Spells : 
Those golden clouds 
That rolled in glittering billows 
Beneath the azure canopy 
With the ethereal footsteps trembled 
not : 
The light and crimson mists, 
Floating to strains of thrilling melody 
Through that unearthly dwelling. 
Yielded to every movement of the will. 
Upon their passive swell the Spirit 

leaned. 
And, for the varied bliss that pressed 
around, 
Used not the glorious privilege 
Of virtue and of wisdom. 

Spirit ! the Fairy said. 
And pointed to the gorgeous dome, 
This is a wondrous sight 
And mocks all human grandeur ; 
But, were it virtue's only meed to dwell 
In a celestial palace, all' resigned 
To pleasurable impulses, immured 
Within the prison of itself, ihe will 
Of changeless nature would be unful- 
filled. 
Learn to make others happy. Spirit, 

come ! 
This is thine high reward :— the past 

shall rise ; 
Thou Shalt behold the present ; I will 
teach 
The secrets of the future. 

The Fairy and the Spirit 
Approached the overhanging battle- 
ment. — 
Below lay stretched the universe ! 
There, far as the remotest line 
That bounds imagination's flight. 

Countless and unending orbs 
In mazy motion intermingled. 
Yet still fulfilled immutably 
Eternal nature's law. 
Above, below, around 
The circling systems formed 
A wilderness of harmony ; 
Each with undeviating aim, 



In eloquent silence, through the depths 
of space 
Pursued its wondrous way. 

There was a little light 
That twinkled in the misty distance : 

None but a spirit's eye 

Might ken that rolling orb ; 

None but a spirit's eye. 

And in no other place 
But that celestial dwelling, might be- 
hold 
Each action of this earth's inhabitants. 

But matter, space and time 
In those aerial mansions cease to act ; 
And all-prevailing wisdom, when it 

reaps 
The harvest of its excellence, o'er- 

bounds 
Those obstacles, of which an earthly 

soul 
Fears to attempt the conquest. 

The Fairy pointed to the earth. 
The Spirit's intellectual eye 
Its kindred beings recognized. 
The thronging thousands, to a passing 
view, 
Seemed like an ant-hill's citizens. 
How wonderful ! that even 
The passions, prejudices, interests. 
That sway the meanest being, the 
weak touch 
That moves the finest nerve. 
And in one human brain 
Causes the faintest thought, becomes 
a link 
In the great chain of nature. 

Behold, the Fairy cried. 
Palmyra's ruined palaces ! — 

Behold '.where grandeur frowned; 

Behold! where pleasure smiled; 
What now remains 'i — the memory 

Of senselessness and shame — 

What is immortal there ? 

Nothing— it stands to tell 

A melancholy tale, to give 

An awful warning : soon 
Oblivion will steal silently 

The remnant of its fame. 

Monarchs and conquerors there 
Proud o'er prostrate millions trod — 
The eartlKpiakes of the human race ; 
Like them, forgotten when the ruin 

That marks their shock is past. 

Beside the eternal Nile, 
The Pyramids have risen. 
Nile shall pursue his changeless way : 
Those pyramids shall fall ; 



QUEEN MAB. 



Yea ! not a stone sliall stand to tell 
The spot whereon they stood ! 

Their very site shall be forgotten, 
As is their builder's name ! 

Behold yon sterile spot ; 
Where now the wandering Arab's 
tent 
Flaps in the desert-blast. 
There once old Salem's haughty fane 
Reared high to heaven its thousand 
golden domes, 
And in the blushing face of day 
Exposed its shameful glory. 
Oh ! many a widow, many an orphan 

cursed 
The building of that fane ; and many 

a father. 
Worn out with toil and slavery, im- 
plored 
The poor man's God to sweep it from 

the earth. 
And spare his children the detested 

task 
Of piling stone on stone, and poisoning 
The choicest days of life. 
To soothe a dotard's vanity. 
There an inhuman and uncultured race 
Howled hideous praises to their Demon- 
God ; 
They rushed to war, tore from the 

mother's womb 
The unborn child,— old age and infancy 
Promiscuous perished ; their victorious 

arms 
Left not a soul to breathe. Oh ! they 

were fiends : 
But what was he who taught them that 

the God 
Of nature and benevolence hath given 
A special sanction to the trade of 

blood ? 
His name and theirs are fading, and 

the tales \ 
Of this barbarian nation, which impos- 
ture \ 
Recites till terror credits, are pursuing 
Itself into forgetfulness. 
Where Athens, Rome, and Sparta 

stood. 
There is a moral desert now : 
The mean and miserable huts. 
The yet more wretched palaces, 
Contrasted with those ancient fanes. 
Now crumbling to oblivion ; 
The long and lonely colonnades. 
Through which the ghost of Freedom 
stalks, 
Seem like a well-known tune, 
Which, in some dear scene we have 
loved to hear. 
Remembered now in sadness. 



But, oh ! how much more 

changed. 
How gloomier is the contrast 
Of human nature there ! 
Where Socrates expired, a tyrant's 

slave, 
A coward and a fool, spreads death 
around- 
Then, shuddering, meets his own. 
Where Cicero and Antoninus lived, 
A cowled and hypocritical monk 
Prays, curses and deceives. 

Spirit ! ten thousand years 

Have scarcely passed away. 

Since, in the waste where now the 

savage drinks 
His enemy's blood, and aping Europe's 
sons. 
Wakes the unholy song of war. 
Arose a stately city, 
Metropolis of the western continent : 

There, now, the mossy column-stone, 
Indented by time's unrelaxing grasp. 
Which once appeared to brave 
All, save its country's ruin ; 
There the wide forest scene. 
Rude in the uncultivated loveliness 

Of gardens long run wild. 
Seems, to the unwilling sojourner, 
whose steps 
Chance in that desert has delayed, 
Thus to have stood since earth was 
what it is. 
Yet once it was the busiest haunt, 
Whither, as to a common centre, 
flocked 
Strangers, and ships, and merchan- 
dise : 
Once peace and freedom blest 
The cultivated plain : 
But wealth, that curse of man, 
Blighted the bud of its prosperity : 
Virtue and wisdom, truth and liberty, 
Pled, to return not, until man shall 
know 
That they alone can give the bliss 

Worthy a soul that claims 
Its kindred with eternity. 

There's not one atom of yon earth 

But once was living man ; 
Nor the minutest drop of rain, 
Tliat hangeth in its thinnest cloud, 
But flowed in human veins : 
And from the burning plains 
Where Libyan monsters yell, 
From the most gloomy glens 
Of Greenland's sunless clime, 
To where the golden fields 
Of fertile England spread 
Their harvest to the day. 



QUEEN MAB. 



Thou canst not find one spot 
AVhereon no city stood. 

How strange is human pride 1 
I tell thee that those living- things, 
Towhona the fragile blade of grass, 
That springeth in the morn 
And perisheth ere noon, 
Is an unbounded world ; 
I tell thee that those viewless beings, 
"Wliose mansion is tlie smallest particle 
Of the impassive atmosphere. 
Think, feel and live like man ; 
That their affections and antipathies. 
Like his, produce the laws 
Ruling their moral state ; 
And the minutest throb 
That through their frame diffuses 
The slightest, faintest motion, 
Is fixed and indispensable 
As the majestic laws 
That rule yon rolling orbs. 

The Fairy paused. The Spirit, 
In ecstasy of admiration, felt 
All knowledge of the past revived ; the 
events 
Of old and wondrous times, 
"Which dim tradition interruptedly 
Teaches the credulous vulgar, were 
unfolded 
In just perspective to the view ; 
Yet dim from their infinitude. 
The Spirit seemed to stand 
High on an isolated pinnacle ; 
The flood of ages combating below, 
The depth of the unbounded universe 
Above, and all around 
Nature's unchanging harmony. 

III. 

Fairy ! the Spirit said, 
And on the Queen of spells 
Fixed her ethereal eyes, 
I thank thee. Thou hast given 
A boon which I will not resign, and 

taught 
A lesson not to be unlearned. I know 
The past, and thence I will essay to 

glean 
A warning for the future, so that oian 
May profit by his errors, and derive 

Experience from his folly : 
For, when the power of imparting joy 
Is equal to the will, the human soul 
Requires no other heaven. 



Turn thee, surpassing Spirit ! 
Much yet remains unscanued. 



Thou knowest how great is 

man, 
Thou knowest his imbecility : 
Yet learn thou what he is ; 
Yet learn the lofty destiny 
Which restless time prepares 
For every living soul. 

Behold a gorgeous palace, that, amid 
Yon populous city, rears its thousand 

towers 
And seems itself a city. Gloomy troops 
Of sentinels, in stern and silent ranks. 
Encompass it around ; the dweller 

there 
Cannot be free and happy ; hearest 

thou not 
The curses of the fatherless, the groans 
Of those who have no friend ? He 

passes on : 
The King, the wearer of a gilded chain 
That binds his soul to abjectness, the 

fool 
Whom courtiers nickname monarch, 

whilst a slave 
Even to the basest appetites — that man 
Heeds not the shriek of penury ; he 

smiles 
At the deep curses which the destitute 
Mutter in secret, and a sullen joy 
Pervades his bloodless heart when 

thousands groan 
But for tho.se morsels which his wan- 
tonness 
Wastes in unjoyous revelry, to save 
All that they loVe from famine : when 

he hears 
The tale of horror, to some ready-made 

face 
Of hypocritical assent he turns. 
Smothering the glow of shame, that, 

spite of him. 
Flushes his bloated cheek. 

Now to the meal 
Of silence, grandeur, and excess, he 

drags 
His palled unwilling appetite. If gold, 
Grleaming around, and numerous 

viands culled 
From every clime, could force the 

loathing sense 
To overcome satiety,— if wealth 
The spring it draws from poisons not, 

—or vice. 
Unfeeling, stubborn vice, converteth 

not 
Its food to deadliest venom ; then that 

king 
Is happy ; and the peasant who fulfils 
His unforced task, when he returns at 

even 
And by the blazing fagot meets again 



QUEEN MAB. 



Her welcome for whom all his toil is 

sped, 
Tastes not a sweeter meal. 

Behold him now 
Stretched on the gorgeous couch ; his 

fevered brain 
Reels dizzily awhile ; but ah ! too soon 
The slumber of intemperance subsides, 
And conscience, that undying serpent, 

calls 
Her venomous brood to their nocturnal 

task. 
Listen ! he speaks ! oh ! mark that 

frenzied eye — 
Oh ! mark that deadly visage. 

KING. 

No cessation ! 
Oh ! must this last forever ! Awful 

death, 
I wish, yet fear to cla.sp thee ! — Not 

one moment 
Of dreamless sleep ! O dear and blessed 

peace ! 
Why dost thou shroud thy vestal purity 
In penury and dungeons ? wherefore 

lurkest 
With danger, death, and solitude ; yet 

shun'st 
The palace I have built thee ? Sacred 

peace ! 
Oh visit me but once, but pitying shed 
One drop of balm upon my withered 

soul. 

Vain man ! that palace is the virtuous 

heart, 
And peace defileth not her snowy robes 
In such a shed as thine. Hark ! yet he 

mutters ; 
His slumbers are but varied agonies, 
They prey like scorpions on the springs 

of life. 
There needeth not the hell that bigots 

frame 
To punish those who err ; earth in it- 
self 
Contains at once the evil and the cure ; 
And all-sufflcing nature can chastise 
Those who transgress her law, — she 

only knows 
How justly to proportion to the fault 
The punishment it merits. 

Is it strange 
That this poor wretch should pride him 

in his woe ? 
Take pleasure in his abjectness, and 

hug 
The scorpion that consumes him ? Is 

it strange 



That, placed on a conspicuous throne 

of thorns. 
Grasping an iron sceptre, and immured 
Within a splendid prison, whose stern 

bounds 
Shut him from all that's good or dear 

on earth. 
His soul asserts not Its humanity ? 
That man's mild nature rises not in 

war 
Against a king's employ ? No — 't is 

not strange. 
He, like the vulgar, thinks, feels, acts 

and lives 
Just as his father did ; the uncon- 

quered powers 
Of precedent and custom interpose 
Between a lihig and virtue. Stranger 

yet, 

To those who know not nature, nor de- 
duce 
The future from the present, it may 

seem. 
That not one slave, who suffers from 

the crimes 
Of this unnatural being ; not one 

wretch, 
Whose children famish, and whose 

nuptial bed 
Is earth's unpitying bosom, rears an 

arm 
To dash him from his throne ! 

Those gilded flies 
That, basking in the sunshine of a 

court. 
Fatten on its corruption ! — what are 

they ? 
— The drones of the community ; they 

feed 
On the mechanic's labor : the starved 

hind 
For them compels the stubborn glebe 

to yield 
Its unshared harvests ; and yon squalid 

form, 
Leaner than fleshless misery, that 

wastes 
A sunless life in the unwholesome mine, 
Drags out in labor a protracted death, 
To glut their grandeur ; many faint 

with toil. 
That few may know the cares and woe 

of sloth. 



Whence think'st thou, kings and para- 
sites arose ? 

Whence that unnatural line of drones 
who heap 

Toil and unvanquishable penury 

On those who build their palaces, and 
bring 



QUEEN jMAB. 



Their daily bread ?— From vice, black I 
loathsome vice ; | 

From rapine, madness, treacherj', and 
wrong ; " | 

Fi'om all that genders misery, and 
makes ' j 

Of earth this thornv wilderness ; from 
lust, j 

Revenge, and murder. . . . And when 
reason's voice, 

Loud as the voice of nature, shall have 
waked ; 

The nations ; and mankind perceive 
that vice i 

Is discord, war, and misery ; that virtue 

Is peace, and happiness and liarmony ; i 

TVhen man's maturer nature shall dis- 
dain 

The playthings of its childhood ;— 
kingly glare i 

Will lose its power to dazzle ; its au- 
thority 

Will silently pass by ; the gorgeous 
throne i 

Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall. 

Fast falling to decay ; whilst false- 
hood's trade ' 

Shall be as hateful and unprofitable 

As that of truth is now. 

Where is the fame 

Which the vainglorious mighty of the 
earth , 

Seek to eternize ? Oh ! the faintest 
sound 

From time's light footfall, the minutest 
wave 

That swells the flood of ages, whelms 
in nothing | 

The unsubstantial bubble. Ay ! to-day 

Stern is the tyrant's mandate, red the 
gaze 

That flashes desolation, strong the arm 

That scatters multitudes. To-morrow 
comes ! 

That mandate is a thunder-peal that 
died 

In ages past ; that gaze, a transient 
flash 

On which the midnight closed, and on 
that arm 

The worm has made his meal. 

The virtuous man, 

Who, great in his humility, as kings 

Are little in their grandeur ; he who 
leads 

Invincibly a life of resolute good. 

And stands amid the silent dungeon- 
depths 

More free and fearless than the trem- , 
bling judge, ' 

Who, clothed in venal power, vainly 
strove ' 



To bind the impassive spirit ; when he 

falls. 
His mild eye beams benevolence no 

more : 
Withered the hand outstretched but 

to relieve ; 
Sunk reason's simple eloquence, that 

rolled 
But to appal the guilty. Yes ! the 

grave 
Hath quenched that eye, and death's 

relentless frost 
Withered that arm : but the unfading 

fame 
Which virtue hangs upon its votary's 

tomb ; 
The deathless memory of that man, 

whom kings 
Call to their mind and tremble ; the 

remembrance 
With which the happy spirit contem- 
plates 
Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth, 
Shall never pass away. 

Nature rejects the monarch, not the 
man ; 

The subject, not the citizen : for kings 

And subjects, mutual foes, forever play 

A losing game into each other's hands, 

Whose stakes are vice and misery. 
The man 

Of virtuous soul commands not, nor 
obeys. 

Power, like a desolating pestilence. 

Pollutes whate'er it touches ; and obe- 
dience. 

Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, 
truth. 

Makes .slaves of men, and, of the hu- 
man frame, 

A mechanized automaton. 

When Nero, 

High over flaming Rome, with savage 
joy 

Lowered like a fiend, drank with en- 
raptured ear 

The shrieks of agonizing death, beheld 

The frightful desolation spread, and 
felt 

A new created sense within his soul 

Thrill to the sight, and vibrate to the 
sound ; 

Think'st thou his grandeur had not 
overcome 

The force of human kindness ? and, 
when Rome, 

With one stern blow, hurled not the 
tyrant down. 

Crushed not the arm red with her dear- 
est blood, 



10 



QUEEN MAB. 



Had not submissive abjectness des- 
troyed 

Nature's suggestions ? 

Look on yonder earth : 

The golden harvests spring ; tlie un- 
failing sun 

Sheds light and life ; the fruits, the 
flowers, the trees, 

Arise in due succession ; all things 
speak 

Peace, harmony, and love. The uni- 
verse. 

In nature's silent eloquence, declares 

That all fulfil the works of love and 

joy- 
All but the outcast man. He fabricates 

The sword which stabs his peace ; he 
cherisheth 

The snakes that gnaw his heart ; he 
raiseth up 

The tyrant, whose delight is in his woe, 

Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun, 

Lights it the great alone ? Yon silver 
beams. 

Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage 
thatch 

Than on the dome of kings ? Is mother 
earth 

A step-dame to her numerous sons, who 
earn 

Her unshared gifts with unremitting 
toil; 

A mother only to those puling babes 

Who, nursed in ease and luxury, make 
men 

The playthings of their babyhood, and 
mar, 

In self-important childishness, that 
peace 

Which men alone appreciate ? 

Spirit of Nature ! no. 
The pure diffusion of thy essence throbs 
Alike in every human heart. 

Thou aye erectest there 
Thy throne of power unappealable : 
Thou art the judge beneath whose nod 
Man's brief and frail authority 

Is powerless as the wind 

That passeth idly by. 
Thine the tribunal which surpasseth 
The show of human justice. 

As God surpasses man. 

Spirit of Nature ! thou 
Life of interminable multitudes ; 
Souls of those mighty spheres 
Whose changeless paths thro' Heaven's 
deep silence lie ; 
Soul of that smallest being, 
The dwelling of whose life 



Is one faint April sun-gleam ; — 
Man, like these passive things, 
Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth : 
Like theirs, his age of endless peace, 
Which time is fast maturing, 
Will swiftly, surely come ; 
And the unbounded frame, which thou 
pervadest, 
Will be without a flaw 
Marring its perfect symmetry. 

IV. 

How beautiful this night ! the balmiest 
sigh, 

Which vernal zephyrs breathe in even- 
ing's ear, 

Were discord to the speaking quietude 

That wraps this moveless scene. 
Heaven's ebon vault. 

Studded with stars unutterably bright. 

Through which the moon's unclouded 
grandeur rolls. 

Seems like a canopy which love had 
spread 

To curtain her sleeping world. Yon 
gentle hills, i 

Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 

Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles j 
depend, j 

So stainless, that their white and glit- 
tering spires 

Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon 
castled steep, 

Whose banner hangeth o'er the time- 
worn tower 

So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it 

A metaphor of peace ; — all form a scene 

Where musing solitude might love to 
lift 

Her soul above this sphere of earthli- 
ness ; 

Where silence undisturbed might 
watch alone. 

So cold, so bright, so still. 

The orb of day, 

In southern climes, o'er oceans wave- 
less field 

Sinks sweetly smiling : not the faintest 
breath 

Steals o'er the unruffled deep ; the 
clouds of eve 

Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of 
day ; 

And vesper's image on the western 
main 

Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes : 

Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepen- 
ing mass. 

Roll o'er the blackened waters ; the 
deep roar 

Of distant thunder mutters awfully ; 



QUEEN MAB. 



11 



Tempest unfolds its pinion o'er the 

gloom 
That shrouds the boiling surge ; the 

pitiless fiend, 
With all his winds and lightnings, 

tracks his prey ; 
The torn deep yawns, — the vessel finds 

a grave 
Beneath its jagged gulph. 

Ah ! whence yon glare 
That fires the arch of heaven y— that 

dark red smoke 
Blotting the silver moon ? The stars 

are quenched 
In darkness, and the pure and span- 
gling snow 
Gleams faintly through the gloom that 

gathers round ! 
Hark to that roar, whose swift and 

deafening peals 
In countless echoes through the moun- 
tains ring, 
Startling pale midnight on her starry 

throne ! 
Now swells the intermingling din ; the 

jar 
Frequent and frightful of the bursting 

bomb ; 
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, 

the shout, 
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of 

men 
Inebriate with rage : — loud, and more 

loud 
The discord grows ; till pale death 

shuts the scene. 
And o'er the conqueror and the con- 
quered draws 
His cold and bloody shroud.— Of all 

the men 
Whom day's departing beam saw 

blooming there. 
In proud and vigorous health ; of all 

the hearts 
That beat with anxious life at sunset 

there ; 
How few survive, how few are beating 

now ! 
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm 
That slumbers in the storm's portent- 
ous pause ; 
Save when the frantic wail of widowed 

love 
Comes shuddering on the blast, or the 

faint moan 
With which some soul bursts from the 

frame of clay 
Wrapt round its struggling powers. 

The gray morn 
Dawns on the mournful .scene ; the 

sulphurous smoke 
Before the icy wind slow rolls away, 



And the bright beams of frosty morn- 
ing dance 
Along the spangling snow. There 

tracks of blood 
Even to the forest's depth, and scat- 
tered arms. 
And lifeless warriors, whose hard linea- 
ments 
Death's self could change not, mark the 

dreadful path 
Of the outsallying victors : far behind, 
Black ashes note where their proud city 

stood. 
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen- 
Each tree which guards its darkness 

from the day 
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. 

I see thee shrink. 
Surpassing Spirit !— wert thou human 

else? 
I see a .shade of doubt and horror 

fleet 
Across thy stainless features : yet fear 

not ; 
This is no unconnected misery. 
Nor stands uncaused, and irretrievable, 
Man's evil nature, that apology 
Which kings who rule, and cowards 

who crouch, set up 
For their unnumbered crimes, sheds 

not the blood 
Which desolates the discord-wasted 

land. 
From kings, and priests, and statesmen, 

war arose. 
Whose safety is man's deep unbettered 

woe, 
Whose grandeur his debasement. Let 

the axe 
Strike at the root, the poison-tree will 

fall; 
And where its venomed exhalations 

spread 
Ruin, and death, and woe, where mil- 
lions lay 
Quenching the serpent's famine, and 

their bones 
Bleaching unburied in the putrid 

blast, 
A garden shall arise, in loveliness 
Surpassing fabled Eden. 

Hath Nature's soul. 
That formed this world so beautiful, 

that spread 
Earth's lap with plenty, and life's 

smallest chord 
Strung to unchanging unison, that 

gave 
The happy birds their dwelling in the 

grove, 
That yielded to the wanderers of tiie 

deep 



12 



QUEEN MAB. 



The lovely silence of the unfathomed 

maiii, 
And filled the meanest worm that 

crawls in dust 
With spirit, thought, and love ; on 

Man alone. 
Partial in causeless malice, wantonly 
Heaped ruin, vice, and slavery ; his 

soul 
Blasted with withering curses ; placed 

afar 
The meteor-happiness, that shuns his 

grasp, 
But serving on the frightful gulph to 

glare. 
Rent wide beneath his footsteps ? 

Nature !— no ! 
Kings, priests, and statesmen, blast 

the human flower 
Even in its tender bud ; their influence 

darts 
Like subtle poison through the blood- 
less veins 
(Jf desolate society. The child, 
Ere he can lisp his mother's sacred 

name, 
Swells with the unnatural pride of 

crime, and lifts 
His baby-sword even in a hero's mood. 
This infant-arm becomes the bloodiest 

scourge 
Of devasted earth ; whilst specious 

names. 
Learnt in soft childhood's unsuspecting 

hour, 
Serve as the sophisms with which man- 
hood dims 
Bright reason's ray, and sanctifies the 

sword 
Upraised to shed a brother's innocent 

blood. 
Let priest-led slaves cease to proclaim 

that man 
Inherits vice and misery, when force 
And falsehood hang even o'er the 

cradled babe, 
Stifling with rudest grasp all natural 

good. 

Ah ! to the stranger-soul, when first it 
peeps 

From its new tenement, and looks 
abroad 

For happiness and sympathy, how 
stern 

And desolate a tract is this wide world! 

How withered all the buds of natural 
good ! 

No shade, no shelter from the sweep- 
ing storms 

Of pitiless power ! On its wretched 
frame, 



Poisoned, perchance, by the disease 

and woe 
Heaped on the wretched parent whence 

it sprung 
By morals, law, and custom, the pure 

winds 
Of heaven, that renovate the insect 

tribes 
May breathe not. The untainting light 

of day 
May visit not its longings. It is bound 
Ere it has life ; yea, all the chains are 

forged 
Long ere its being : all liberty and love 
And peace is torn from its defenceless- 

ness * 
Cursed from its birth, even from its 

cradle doomed 
To abjectness and bondage ! 

Throughout this varied and eternal 

world 
Soul is the only element : the block 
That for uncounted ages has remained 
The moveless pillar of a mountain's 

weight 
Is active, living spirit. Every grain 
Is sentient both in unity and part, 
And the minutest atom comprehends 
A world of loves and hatreds ; these 

beget 
Evil and good : hence truth and false- 
hood spring ; 
Hence will and thought and action, all 

the germs 
Of pain or pleasure, sympathy or hate, 
That variegate the eternal universe. 
Soul is not more polluted than the 

beams ,. 

Of heaven's pure orb, ere round their < 

rapid lines 
The taint of earth-born atmospheres 

arise. 

Man is of soul and body, formed for! 



deeds , ,, ^ 

Of high resolve, on fancy s boldest 

wing 
To soar unwearied, fearlessly to turn 
The keenest pangs to peacef ulness, and 

taste , 

The joys which mingled sense and 

"spirit yield. 
Or he is formed for abjectness and woe, 
To grovel on the dunghill of his fears. 
To shrink at every sound, to quench 

the flame 
Of natural love in sensualism, to know- 
That hour as blest when on his worth 

less days ^ , „ ^ .^ , 

The frozen hand of death shall set iti| 

seal, 



i 



QUEEN MAB. 



13 



Yet fear the cure, though hatinc: the 

disease. 
The one is man that shall hereafter be; 
The other, man as vice has made him 

now. 

War is the statesman's game, the 
priest's delight, 

The la\vyer's jest, the hired assassin's 
trade. 

And, to those royal murderers, whose 
mean thrones 

Are bought by crimes of treachery and 
gore, 

The bread they eat, the staff on which 
they lean. 

Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, sur- 
round 

Their palaces, participate the crimes 

That force defends, and from a na- 
tion's rage 

Secure the crown, which all the curses 
reach 

That famine, frenzy, woe and penury 
breathe. 

These are the hired bravos who defend 

The tyrant's throne— the bullies of his 
fear : 

These are the sinks and channels of 
worst vice, 

The refuse of society, the dregs 

Of all that is most vile : their cold 
hearts blend 

Deceit with sternness, ignorance with 
pride. 

All that is mean and villanous with 
rage 

Which hopelessness of good, and self- 
contempt, 

Alone might kindle ; they are decked 
in wealth. 

Honor and power, then are sent abroad 

To do their work. The pestilence that 
stalks 

In gloomy triumph through some east- 
ern land 

Is less destroying. They cajole with 
gold. 

And promises of fame, the thoughtless 
youth 

Already crushed with servitude ; he 
knows 

His wretchedness too late, and cher- 
ishes 

Repentance for hi.s ruin, when his 
doom 

Is sealed in gold and blood ! 

Those too the tyrant serve, who, skilled 
to snare 

The feet of justice in the toils of law, 

Htand, ready to oppress the weaker 
still ; 



And right or wrong will vindicate for 
gold. 

Sneering at public virtue, which be- 
neath 

Their pitiless tread lies torn and 
trampled, where 

Honor sits smiling at the sale of truth. 

Then grave and hoary-headed hypo- 
crites. 

Without a hope, a passion, or a love, 

Who, through a life of luxury and lies. 

Have crept by flattery to the seats of 
power. 

Support the system whence their hon- 
ors flow. . . . 

They have three words :— well tyrants 
know their use. 

Well pay them for the loan, with usury 

Torn from a bleeding world !— God, 
Hell, and Heaven. 

A vengeful, pitiless, and almighty 
fiend. 

Whose mercy is a nickname for the 
rage 

Of tameless tigers hungering for 
blood. 

Hell, a red gulph of everlasting fire. 

Where poi.souous and undying worms 
prolong 

Eternal misery to those hapless slaves 

Whose life has been a penance for its 
crimes. 

And Heaven, a meed for those who 
dare belie 

Their human nature, quake, believe, 
and cringe 

Before the mockeries of earthly power. 

These tools the tyrant tempers to his 

work. 
Wields in his wrath, and as he wills 

destroys. 
Omnipotent in wickedness : the while 
Youth springs, age nioulder.s, manhood 

tamely does 
His bidding, bribed by short-lived joys 

to lend 
Force to the weakness of his trembling 

arm. 

They rise, they fall : one generation 
comes 

Yielding its harvest to destruction's 
scythe. 

It fades, another blossoms : vet be- 
hold ! 

Red glows the tyrant's stamp-mark on 
its bloom. 

Withering and cankering deep its pas- 
sive prime. 



14 



QUEEN MAB. 



He has invented lying words and 

modes, 
Empty and vain as his own coreless 

heart ; 
Evasive meanings, nothings of much 

sound, 
To lure the heedless victim to the toils 
Spread round the valley of its paradise. 

Look to thyself, priest, conqueror, or 

prince ! 
Whether thy trade is falsehood, and 

thy lusts 
Deep wallow in the earnings of the 

poor, 
With whom thy master was :— or thou 

delight'st 
In numbering o'er the myriads of thy 

slain. 
All misery weighing nothing in the 

scale 
Against thy short-lived fame ; or thou 

dost load 
With cowardice and crime the groan- 
ing land, 
A pomp-fed king. Look to thy 

wretched self ! 
Ay, art thou not the veriest slave that 

e'er 
Crawled on the loathing earth '; Are 

not thy days 
Days of unsatisfying listlessness V 
Dost thou not cry, ere night's long rack 

is o'er, 
When will the morning come ? Is not 

thy youth 
A vain and feverish dream of sensual- 
ism 't 
Thy manhood blighted with unripe 

disease ? 
Are not thy views of unregretted death 
Drear, comfortless, and horrible y Thy 

mind. 
Is it not morbid as thy nerveless frame. 
Incapable of judgment, hope, or love ? 
And dost thou wish the errors to sur- 
vive 
That bar thee from all sympathies of 

good, 
After the miserable interest 
Thou hold'st in their protraction y 

When the grave 
Has swallowed up thy memory and 

thyself, 
Dost thou desire the bane that poisons 

earth 
To twine its roots around thy cotfined 

clay, 
Spring from thy bones, and blossom on 

thy tomb, 
That of its fruit thy babes may eat and 

die 'i 



V. 



Thus do the generations of the earth 
Go to the grave, and issue from the 

womb. 
Surviving still the imperishable change 
That renovates the world ; even as the 

leaves 
Which the keen frost-wind of the wan- 
ing year 
Has scattered on the forest soil, and 

heaped 
For many seasons there, though long 

they choke. 
Loading with loathsome rottenness the 

land. 
All germs of promise, yet when the tall 

trees 
From which they fell, shorn of their 

lovely shapes, 
Lie level with the earth to moulder 

there, 
They fertilize the land they long de- 
formed, 
Till from the breathing lawn a forest 

springs 
Of youth, integrity, and loveliness. 
Like that which gave it life, to spring 

and die. 
Thus suicidal selfishness, that VUghts 
The fairest feelings of *he opening 

heart. 
Is destined to decay, whilst from the 

soil 
Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all 

love, 
And jiidgment cease to wage unnatural 

war 
With passion's unsubduable array. 
Twin-sister of religion, selfishness ! 
Rival in crime and falsehood, aping 

all 
The wanton horrors of her bloody play ; 
Yet frozen, unimpassioacd, spiritless. 
Shunning the light, and owning not its 

name, 
Compelled, by its deformity, to screen 
With flimsy veil of justice and of right. 
Its unattractive lineaments, that scare 
All, save the brood of ignorance : at 

once 
The cause and the effect of tyranny ; 
Unblushing, hardened, sen.sual, and 

vile ; 
Dead to all love but of its abjectness. 
With heart impassive by more noble 

powers 
Than unshared pleasure, sordid gain, 

or fame ; 
Despising its own mi.serable being. 
Which still it longs, yet fears to dis- 
enthrall. 



QUEEN MAB. 



la 



Hence commerce springs, the venal ' 

interchange 
Of all that human art or nature yield ; 
Which wealth shduld purchase not, but 

want demand, 
And natural kindness hasten to supply | 
From the full fountain of its boundless | 

love, I 

Forever stifled, drained, and tainted [ 

now. I 

Commerce ! beneath whose poison- I 

breathing shade 
No solitary virtue dares to spring, 
But poverty and wealth with equal 

hand 
Scatter their withering curses, and 

unfold 
The doors of premature and violent 

death, 
To pining famine and full-fed disease, 
To all that shares the lot of human life. 
Which poisoned, body and soul, scarce 

drags the chain. 
That lengthens as it goes and clanks 

behind. 

Commerce has set the mark of selfish- 
ness, 

The signet of its all-enslaving power 

Upon a shining ore, and called it gold : 

Before whose image bow the vulgar 
great, 

The vainly rich, the miserable proud, 

The mob of peasants, nobles, priests, 
and kings. 

And with blind feelings reverence the 
power 

That grinds them to the dust of misery. 

But in the temple of their hireling 
hearts 

Gold is a living god, and rules in scorn 

All earthly things but virtue. 

Since tyrants, by the sale of human 

life. 
Heap luxuries to their sensualism, and 

fame 
To their wide- wasting and insatiate 

pride. 
Success has sanctioned to a credulous 

world 
The ruin, the disgrace, the woe of war. 
His hosts of blind and unresisting 

dupes 
The despot numbers ; from his cabinet 
These puppets of his schemes he moves 

at will. 
Even as the slaves by force or famine 

driven. 
Beneath a vulgar master, to perform 
A task of cold and brutal drudgery ; — 
Hardened to hope, insensible to fear, ' 



Scarce living pulleys of a dead ma- 
chine, 

Mere wheels of work and articles of 
trade, 

That grace the proud and noisy pomp 
of wealth ! 

The harmony and happiness of man 
Yields to the wealth of nations ; that 

which lifts 
His nature to the heaven of its pride 
Is bartered for the poison of his soul ; 
The weight that drags to earth his 

towering hopes. 
Blighting all prospect but of selfish 

gain, 
Withering all passion but of slavish 

fear, 
Extinguishing all free and generous 

love 
Of enterprise and daring, even the 

pulse 
That fancy kindles in the beating heart 
To mingle with sensation, it destroys, — 
Leaves nothing but the sordid lust of 

self. 
The grovelling liope of interest and 

gold. 
Unqualified, unmingled, unredeemed 
Even by hypocrisy. 

And statesmen boast 
Of wealth ! The wordy eloquence, that 

lives 
After the ruin of their hearts, can gild 
The bitter poison of a nation's woe, 
Can turn the worship of the servile 

mob 
To their corrupt and glaring idol fame. 
From virtue, trampled by its iron tread. 
Although its dazzling pedestal be raised 
Amid the horrors of a limb-strewn field. 
With desolated dwellings smoking 

round. 
The man of ease, who, by his warm fire- 
side. 
To deeds of charitable intercourse 
And bare fulfilment of the common 

laws 
Of decency and prejudice, confines 
The struggling nature of his human 

heart. 
Is duped by their cold sophistry ; he 

sheds 
A passing tear perchance upon the 

wreck 
Of earthly peace, when near liis dwell- 
ing's door 
The frightful waves are driven,— when 

his son 
Is murdered by the tyrant, or religion 
Drives his wife raving mad. But the 

poor man, 



16 



QUEEN MAB. 



Whose life is misery, and fear, and 
care ; 

Whom the morn wakens but to fruit- 
less toil ; 

Who ever hears his famished offspring's 
scream, 

Wliom their pale mother's uncomplain- 
ing gaze 

Forever meets, and the proud rich 
man's eye 

Flashing command, and the heart- 
breaking scene 

Of thousands like himself ;— he little 
heeds 

The rhetoric of tyranny ; his hate 

Is quenchless as his wrongs ; he laughs 
to scorn 

The vain and bitter mockery of words, 

Feeling the horror of the tyrant's 
deeds. 

And unrestrained but by the arm of 
power, 

That knows and dreads his enmity. 

The iron rod of penury still compels 
Her wretched slave to bow the knee 

to wealth. 
And poison, with unprofitable toil, 
A life too void of solace to confirm 
The very chains that bind him to his 

doom. 
Nature, impartial in munificence, 
Has gifted man with all-subduing will. 
Matter, with all its transitory shapes, 
Lies subjected and plastic at his feet, 
That, weak from bondage, tremble as 

they tread. 
How many a rustic Milton has passed 

^y' 

stifling the speechless longings ot his 
heart, 

In unremitting drudgery and care ! 

How many a vulgar Cato has com- 
pelled 

His energies, no longer tameless then. 

To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail ! 

How many a Newton, to whose passive 
ken 

Those mighty spheres that gem infinity 

Were only specks of tinsel, fixed in 
heaven 

To light the midnights of his native 
town ! 

Yet every heart contains perfection's 
germ : 

The wisest of the sages of the earth. 

That ever from these stores of reason 
drew 

Science and truth, and virtue's dread- 
less tone, 



Were but a weak and inexperienced 

boy, 
Proud, sensual, unimpassioned, unim- 

bued 
With pure desire and universal love, 
Compared to that high being, of cloud- 
less brain. 
Untainted passion, elevated will, 
Which death (who even would linger 

long in awe 
Within his noble presence, and beneath 
His changeless eyebeam) might alone 

subdue. 
Him, every slave now dragging 

through the filth 
Of some corrupted city his sad life. 
Pining with famine, swoln with 

luxury, 
Blunting the keenness of his spiritual 

sense 
With narrow schemings and unworthy 

cares. 
Or madly rushing through all violent 

crime. 
To move the deep stagnation of his 

soul, — 
Might imitate and equal. 

But mean lust 
Has bound its chains so tight around 

the earth. 
That all within it but the virtuous man 
Is venal : gold or fame will surely reach 
The price prefixed by selfishness, to all 
But him of resolute and unchanging 

will ; 
Whom, nor the plaudits of a servile 

crowd, 
Nor the vile joys of tainting luxury, 
Can bribe to yield his elevated soul 
To tyranny or falsehood, though they 

wield 
With blood-red hand the sceptre of the 

world. 



All things are sold : the very light of 

heaven 
Is venal ; earth's unsparing gifts of 

love. 
The smallest and most despicable 

things 
That lurk in the abysses of the deep, 
All objects of our life, even life itself, 
And the poor pittance which the laws 

allow 
Of liberty, the fellowship of man, 
Those duties which his heart of human 

love 
Should urge him to perform instinc- 
tively. 
Are bought and sold as in a public 

mart 



QUEEN MAB. 



ir 



Of uiidisguising selfishness, that sets 
On each its price, the stamp-mark of 

her reign. 
Even love is sold ; the solace of all woe 
Is turned to deadliest agony, old age 
Shivers in selfish beauty's loathing 

arms, 
And youth's corrupted impulses pre- 
pare 
A life of horror from the blighting 

bane 
Of commerce ; whilst the pestilence 

that springs 
From unenjoying sensualism, has filled 
All human life with hydra-headed 
woes. 

Falsehood demands but gold to pay 

the pangs 
Of outraged conscience ; for the slavish 

priest 
Sets no great value on his hireling 

faith : 
A little passing pomp, some servile 

souls, 
Whom cowardice itself might safely 

chain. 
Or the spare mite of avarice could 

bribe 
To deck the triumph of their languid 

zeal. 
Can make him minister to tyi'anny. 
More daring crime requires a loftier 

meed : 
Without a shudder, the slave-soldier 

lends 
His arm to murderous deeds, and steels 

his heart. 
When the dread eloquence of dying 

men, 
Low mingling on the lonely field of 

fame, 
Assails that nature, whose applause he 

sells 
For the gross blessings of a patriot 

mob 
For the vile gratitude of heartless 

kings, 
And for a cold world's good word, — 

viler still ! 

There is a nobler glory, which survives 
Until our being fades, and .solacing 
All human care, accompanies its 

change ; 
Deserts not virtue in the dungeon's 

gloom, 
And, in the precincts of the palace, 

guides 
Its footsteps through that labyrinth of 

crime ; 

2 



Imbues his lineaments with dauntless- 

uess. 
Even when, from power's avenging 

hand, he takes 
Its sweetest, last and noblest title- 
death ; 
—The consciousness of good, which 

neither gold. 
Nor sordid fame, nor hope of heavenly 

bliss. 
Can purchase ; but a life of resolute 

good. 
Unalterable will, quenchless desire 
Of universal happiness, the heart 
That beats with it in unison, the brain, 
Whose ever wakeful wisdom toils to 

change 
Reason's rich stores for its eternal weal. 

This commerce of sincerest virtue 
needs 

No mediative signs of selfishness. 

No jealous intercourse of wretched 
gain. 

No balancings of prudence, cold and 
long ; 

In just and equal measure all is 
weighed. 

One scale contains the sum of human 
weal. 

And one, the good man's heart. 

How vainly seek 

The selfish for that happiness denied 

To aught but virtue ! Blind and har- 
dened, they. 

Who hope for peace amid the storms 
of care. 

Who covet power they know not how 
to use. 

And sigh for pleasure they refuse to 
give,— 

Madly they frustrate still their own 
designs ; 

And, where they hope that quiet to en- 
joy 

Which virtue pictures, bitterness of 
soul, 

Pining regrets, and vain repentances, 

Disease, disgust, and lassitude, pervade 

Their valueless and miserable lives. 

But hoary-headed selfishness has felt 
Its death-blow, and is tottering to the 

grave : 
A brighter morn awaits the hunuui 

day, 
When every transfer of earth's natural 

gifts 
Shall be a commerce of good words and 

works ; 
When poverty and wealth, the thirst 

of fame, 



18 



QUEEN MAB. 



The fear of infamy, disease aud woe, 
War with its million horrors, and fierce 

hell 
Shall live but in the memory of time. 
Who, like a penitent libertine, shall 

start, 
Look back, and shudder at his younger 

years. 

VI. 

All touch, all eye, all ear, 
The '^Spirit felt the Fairy's burning 
speech. 
O'er the thin texture of its frame. 
The varying periods painted changing 
glows, 
As on a summer even. 
When soul-enfolding music floats 
around, 
The stainless mirror of the lake 
Re-images the eastern gloom. 
Mingling convulsively its purple hues 
With sunset's burnished gold. 

Then thus the Spirit spoke : 
It is a wild and miserable world ! 

Thorny, and full of care, 
Which every fiend can make his prey 
at will. 
O Fairy ! in the lapse of years. 
Is there no hope in store 'i 
Will yon vast suns roll on 
Interminably, still illuming 
The night of so many wretched souls. 
And see no hope for them ? 
Will not the universal Spirit e'er 
Revivify this withered limb of 
Heaven ? 

The Fairy calmly smiled 
In comfort, and a kindling gleam of 
hope 
Suffused the Spirit's lineaments. 
Oh ! rest thee tranquil ; chase those 

fearful doubts. 
Which ne'er could rack an everlasting 

soul. 
That sees the chains that bind it to its 

doom. 
Yes ! crime and misery are in yonder 
earth. 
Falsehood, mistake, and lust ; 
But the eternal world 
Contains at once the evil and the cure. 
Some eminent in virtue shall start up. 

Even in perversest time : 
The truths of their pure lips, that never 

die, 
Shcill bind the scorpion falsehood with 
a wreath 
Of ever-living flame, 



Until the monster sting itself to death. 

How sweet a scene will earth become ! 

Of purest spirits a pure dwelling-place, 

Symphonious with the planetary 

spheres ; 
When man, with changeless nature 

coalescing. 
Will undertake regeneration's work. 
When its ungenial poles no longer point 
To the red and baleful sun 
That faintly twinkles there. 

Spirit ! on yonder earth, 
Falsehood now triumphs : deadly 
power 
Has fixed its seal upon the lip of truth ! 

Madness and misery are there ! 
The happiest is most wretched ! Yet 

confide. 
Until pure health-drops, from the cup 

of joy. 
Fall like a dew of balm upon the world. 
Now, to the scene I show, in silence 

turn. 
And read the blood-stained charter of 

all woe. 
Which nature si)on, with recreating 

hand. 
Will blot in mercy from the book of 

earth. 
How bold the flight of passion's wan- 
dering wing, 
How swift the step of reason's firmer 

tread. 
How calm and sweet the victories of 

life, 
How terrorless the triumph of the 

grave ! 
How powerless were the mightiest 

monarch's arm. 
Vain his loud threat, and impotent his 

frown ! 
How ludicrous the priest'^ dogmatic 

roar 1 
The weight of his exterminating ciu'se, 
How light ! and his affected charity, 
To suit the pressure of the changing 

times. 
What palpable deceit !— but for thy 

aid. 
Religion ! but for thee, prolific fiend, 
Who peoplest earth wuth demons, hell 

with men. 
And heaven with slaves ! 

Thou faintest all thou look'st upon !— 
the stars. 

Which on thy cradle beamed so bright- 
ly sweet. 

Were gods to the distempered playful- 
ness 

Of thy untutored infancy : the trees. 



QLTEEN MAB. 



19 



The grass, the clouds, tlic mouutains, 

and the sea, 
All living things that walk, swim, 

creeii, or fly, 
Were gods : the sun had homage, and 

the moon 
Her worshipper. Then thou becamest, 

a boy. 
More daring in thy frenzies : every 

shape, 
Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild, 
AVhich, from sensation's relics, fancy 

culls ; 
The spirits of the air, the shuddering 

ghost, 
The genii of the elements, the powers 
That give a shape to natun^'s varied 

works. 
Had life and place in the corrupt belief 
( )f thy blind heart : yet still thy youth- 
ful hands 
Were pure of human blood. Then 

manhood gave 
Its strength and ardor to thy frenzied 

brain ; 
Thine eager gaze scanned the stupen- 
dous scene 
Whose wonders mocked the knowledge 

of thy pride : 
Their everlasting and unchanging laws 
Reproached thine ignorance. Awhile 

thou stood'st 
Baffled and gloomy ; then thou didst 

sum up 
The elements of all that thou didst 

know ; 
The changing seasons, winter's leafless 

reign, 
The budding of the heaven -breathing 

trees, 
The eternal orbs that beautify the 

night. 
The sunrise, and the setting of the 

moon, 
Earthquakes and wars, and poisons 

and disease. 
And all their causes, to an abstract 

point, 
Converging, thou didst bend and called 

it God ! 
The self-sufficing, the omnipotent, 
The merciful, and the avenging God ! 
Who, prototype of human misrule, sits 
High in heaven's realm upon a golden 

throne. 
Even like an earthly king : and whose 

dread work. 
Hell, gapes forever for the unhappy 

slaves 
Of fate, whom he created, In his sport, 
To triumjjh in their torments when 

they fell I 



Earth heard the name ; earth trem- 
bled, as the smoke 

Of his revenge ascended up to heaven, 

Blotting the constellations ; and the 
cries 

Of millions, butchered in sweet confi- 
dence 

And unsuspecting peace, even when 
the bonds 

Of safety were confirmed by wordy 
oaths 

Sworn in his dreadful name, rung 
through the land ; 

Whilst innocent babes writhed on thy 
stubborn spear. 

And thou didst laugh to hear the 
mother's shriek 

Of maniac gladness, as the sacred steel 

Felt cold in her torn entrails ! 

Religion ! thou wert then in manhood's 

prime : 
But age crept on : one God would not 

suffice 
For senile puerility ; thou framedst 
A tale to suit thy dotage, and to glut 
Thy misery-thirsting soul, that the mad 

fiend 
Thy wickedness had pictured might 

afford 
A plea for sating the imnatural thirst 
For murder, rapine, vioIence,and crime. 
That still consumed thy being, even 

when 
Thou heard'st the step of fate ;— that 

flames might light 
Thy funeral scene, and the shrill hor- 
rent shrieks 
Of parents dying on the pile that 

burned 
To light their children to thy paths, 

the roar 
Of the encircling flames, the exulting 

cries 
Of thine apostles, loud commingling 

there, 
Might sate thine hungry ear 
Even on the bed of death ! 

But now contempt is mocking thy gray 
hairs ; 

Thou art descending to the darksome 
grave, 

Unhonored and unpitied, but by those 

Whose pride is passing by like thine, 
and sheds, 

Like thine, a glare that fades before 
the sun 

Of truth, and shines but in the dread- 
ful night 

That long has lowered above the ruined 
world. 



20 



QUEEN MA 11. 



Throughout these infinite orbs of min- 
gling light, 

Of which yon earth is one, is wide 
diffused 

A spirit of activity and life. 

That knows no term, cessation, or de- 
cay ; 

That fades not when the lamp of 
earthly life, 

Extinguished in the dampness of the 
grave, 

Awhile there slumbers, more than 
when the babe 

In the dim newness of its being feels 

The impulses of sublunary things, 

And all is wonder to unpractised sense : 

But, active, steadfast, and eternal, 
still 

Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the 
tempest roars. 

Cheers in the day, breathes in the 
balmy groves. 

Strengthens in health, and poisons in 
disease ; 

And in the storm of change, that cease- 
lessly 

Rolls round the eternal universe, and 
shakes 

Its undecaying battlement, presides, 

Apportioning with irresistible law 

The place each spring of its machine 
shall fill ; 

So that when waves on waves tumultu- 
ous heap 

Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely 
driven 

Heaven's lightnings scorch tlie up- 
rooted ocean-fords, 

Whilst, to the eye of shipwrecked 
mariner, 

Lone sitting on the bare and shudder- 
ing rock, 

All seems unlinked contingency and 
chance : 

No atom of this turbulence fulfils 

A vague and unnecessitated task. 

Or acts but as it must or ought to act. 

Even the minutest molecule of light. 

That in an April sunbeam's fleeting 
glow 

Fulfils its destined, though invisible 
work. 

The universal Spirit guides ; nor less. 

When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, 

Has led two hosts of dupes to battle- 
field, 

That, blind, they there may dig each 
other's graves, 

And call the sad work glory, does it 
rule 

All passions : not a thought, a will, an 
act, 



No working of the tyrant's moody mind, 
Nor one misgiving of the slaves who 

boast 
Their servitude, to hide the shame 

they feel. 
Nor the events enchaining every will, 
That from the depths of unrecorded 

time 
Have drawn all-influencing virtue, 

pass 
Unrecognized, or unforeseen by thee, 
Soul of the Universe ! eternal spring 
Of life and death, of happiness and 

woe. 
Of all that chequers the phantasmal 

scene 
That floats before our eyes in waver- 
ing light. 
Which gleams but on the darkness of 

our prison. 
Whose chains and massj' walls 
We feel, but cannot see. 



Spirit of Nature ! all sufficing Power, 
Necessity ! thou mother of the world I 
Unlike the God of human error, thou 
Requirest no prayers or praises ; the 

caprice 
Of man's weak will belongs no more to 

thee 
Than do the changeful passions of his 

breast 
To thy unvarying harmony : the slave, 
Whose horrible lusts spreads misery 

o'er the world. 
And the good man, who lifts, with vir- 
tuous pride. 
His being, in the sight of happiness. 
That springs from his own works ; the 

poison-tree. 
Beneath whose shade all life is with- 
ered up, 
And the fair oak, whose leafy dome 

affords 
A temple where the vows of happy love 
Are registered, are equal in thy sight : 
No love, no hate thou cherishest ; re- 
venge 
And favoritism, and worst desire of 

fame 
Thou knowest not : all that the wide 

world contains 
Are but thy passive instruments, and 

thou 
Regard'st them all with an impartial 

eye. 
Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot 
feel. 
Because thou hast not human 

sense. 
Because thou art not human mind. 



QFKi:Nr MAB. 



21 



Yes when the sweepiiijr storm of time 
Has sung its death-dirge o'er the 

ruined fanes 
And broken altars of the almighty 

fiend, 
Whose name usurps thy honors, and 

the blood 
Tlirough centuries clotted there, has 

floated down 
Tlie tainted flood of ages, shalt thou 

live 
Unchangeable ! A shrine is raised to 
thee. 
Which, nor the tempest breath of 

time, 
Nor the interminable flood, 
Over earth's slight pageant rolling, 
Availeth to destroy, — 
The sensitive extension of the world. 

That wondrous and eternal fane. 
Where pain and pleasure, good and 

evil join, 
To do the will of strong necessity. 

And life, in multitudinous shapes. 

Still pressing forward where no term 

can be. 

Like hungry and unresting flame 

Curls round the eternal columns of its 

strength. 

VII. 



I WAS an infant when my mother went 

To see an atheist burned. She took 
me there : 

The dark-robed priests were met 
around the pile ; 

The multitude was gazing silently ; 

And as the culprit passed wit'h daunt- 
less mien, 

Tempered disdain in his unaltering eye, 

Mixed with a quiet smile, .shone calmly 
forth : 

The thirsty fire crept round his manly 
limbs ; 

His resolute eyes were scorched to 
blindness soon ; 

His death-pang rent my heart ! the in- 
sensate mob 

Uttered a cry of triumph, and I wept. 

Weep not, child ! cried my mother, for 
that man 

Has said. There is no Ood. 

VAIItV. 

There is no God ! 

Nature confirms the faith his death- 
groan sealed : 

Let heaven and earth, let man's revolv- 
ing race. 



His ceaseless generations tell their 
tale ; 

Let every part depending on the chain 

That links it to the whole, point to the 
hand 

That grasps its term ! let every seed 
that falls 

In silent cloiiuence unfold its store 

Of argument ; infinity within, 

Infinity without, belie creation ; 

The exterminable spirit it contains 

Is nature's only God ; but human pride 

Is skilful to invent most serious names 

To hide its ignorance. 

The name of God 

Has fenced about all crime with holi- 
ness. 

Himself the creature of his worship- 
pers. 

Whose names and attributes and pas- 
sions change, 

Seeva, Buddh, Foh, Jehovah, God, or 
Lord, 

Even with the human dupes who build 
his shrines. 

Still serving o'er the war-polluted 
world 

For desolation's watchword ; whether 
hosts 

Stain his death-blushing chariot- 
wheels, as on 

Triumphantly they roll, whilst Brah- 
mins raise 

A sacred hymn to mingle with the 
groans ; 

Or countless partners of his power 
divide 

His tyranny to weakness ; or the smoke 

Of burning towns, the cries of female 
helplessness. 

Unarmed old age, and youth, and in- 
fancy, 

Horribly massacred, ascend to heaven 

In honor of his name ; or, last and 
worst. 

Earth groans beneath religion's iron 
age, 

And priests dare babble of a God of 
peace, 

Even whilst their hands are red with 
guiltless blood, 

Murdering the while, uprooting every 
germ 

Of truth, exterminating, spoiling all. 

Making the earth a slaughter-house ! 



Spirit I through the sense 
By which thy inner nature was ap- 
prised 
Of outward shows, vague dreams 
have rolled, 



22 



QUEEN MAB. 



And vai'ied reniinisceiiees have 
waked 
Tablets that never fade ; 
All things have been imprinted there, 
The stars, the sea, the earth, the sky, 
Even the unshapeliest lineaments 
Of wild and fleeting visions 
Have left a record there 
To testify of earth. 

These are my empire, for to me is given 
The wonders of the human world to 

keep, 
And fancy's thin creations to endow 
With manner, being, and reality ; 
Therefore a wondrous phantom, from 

the dreams 
Of human error's dense and purblind 

faith, 
I will evoke, to meet thy questioning. 
Ahasuerus, arise 1 

A strange and woe-worn wight 
Arose beside the battlement. 
And stood unmoving there. 
His inessential figure cast no shade 

Upon the golden floor ; 
His port and mien bore mark of many 

years, 
And chronicles of untold ancientness 
Were legible within his beamless eye : 
Yet his cheek bore the mark of 
youth ; 
Freshness and vigor knit his manly 

frame ; 
The wisdom of old age was mingled 
there 
With youth's primeval dauntless- 
ness ; 
And inexpressible woe. 
Chastened by fearless resignation, gave 
An awful grace to his all-speaking 
brow. 

SPIRIT. 

Is there a God ? 

AHASUERUS. 

Is there a God !-ay, an almighty God, 
And vengeful as almighty ! Once his 

voice 
Was heard on earth : earth shuddered 

at the sound ; 
The fiery-visaged firmament expressed 
Abhorrence, and the grave of nature 

yawned 
To swallow all the dauntless and the 

good 
That dared to hurl defiance at his 

throne. 



Girt as it was with power. None but 

slaves 
Survived,— cold-blooded slaves, who 

did the work 
Of tyrannous omnipotence ; whose 

souls 
No honest indignation ever urged 
To elevated daring, to one deed 
Which gross and sensual self did not 

pollute. 
These slaves built temples for the om- 
nipotent fiend. 
Gorgeous and yast : the costly altars 

smoked 
With human blood, and hideous paeans 

rung 
Through all the long-drawn aisles. A 

murderer heard 
His voice in Egypt, one whose gifts 

and arts 
Had raised him to his eminence in 

power. 
Accomplice of omnipotence in crime, 
And confidant of the all-knowing one. 
These were Jehovah's words. 

" From an eternity of idleness 

I, God, awoke ; in seven days' toil 

made earth 
From nothing ; rested, and created 

man : 
I placed him in a paradise, and there 
Planted the tree of evil, so that he 
Might eat and perish, and my soul pro- 
cure 
Wherewith to sate its malice, and to 

turn. 
Even like a heartless conqueror of the 

earth. 
All misery to my fame. The race of 

men 
Chosen to my honor, with impunity 
May sate the lusts I planted in their 

heart. 
Here I command thee hence to lead 

them on. 
Until, with hardened feet, their con- 
quering troops 
Wade on the promised soil through 

woman's blood. 
And make my name be dreaded 

through the land. 
Yet ever-burning flame and ceaseless 

woe 
Shall be the doom of their eternal souls, 
With every soul on this ungrateful 

earth". 
Virtuous or vicious, weak or strong, — 

even all 
Shall perish, to fulfil the blind revenge 
(Which you, to men, call justice) of 

their God." 



QUEEN IVrAB. 



23 



The murderer's brow 
Quivered with horror. 

" God omnipotent, 
Is there no mercy ? must our punish- 
ment 
Be endless ? will long ages roll away, 
And see no term ? Oh ! wherefore 

hast thou made 
In mockery and wrath this evil earth ? 
Mercy becomes the powerful — be but 
'just : 

God ! repent and save." 

"One way remains : 

1 will beget a son, and he shall bear 
The sins of all the w-oi-ld ; he shall arise 
In an unnoticed corner of the earth, 
And there shall die upon a cross, and 

purge 
The universal crime ; so that the few 
On whom my grace descends, those who 

are marked 
As vessels to the honor of their God, 
May credit this strange sacrifice, and 

save 
Their souls alive : millions shall live and 

die, 
"Who ne'er shall call upon their Sa- 
viour's name. 
But, unredeemed, go to the gaping 

gi'ave. 
Thousands shall deem it an old woman's 

tale, 
Such as the nurses frighten babes 

withal : 
These in a gulph of anguish and of 

flame 
Shall curse their reprobation endlessly. 
Yet tenfold pangs shall force them to 

avow, 
Even on their beds of torment, where 

they howl, 
My honor, and the justice of their 

doom. 
What then avail their virtuous deeds, 

their thoughts 
Of purity, with I'adiant genius bright. 
Or lit with human reason's earthly ray ? 
Many are called, but few will I elect. 
Do thou my bidding, Moses !" 

Even tlio murderer's cheek 
Was blanched with horror, and his quiv- 
ering lips 
Scarce faintly uttered—" O almighty 

one, 
I tremble and obey ! " 



O Spirit ! centuries have set their seal 
On this heart of many wounds, and 

loaded brain, 
Since the Incarnate came : humbly he 

came. 



Veiling his horrible Godhead in the 

shape 
Of man, scorned by the world, his name 

unheard. 
Save by the rabble of his native town. 
Even as a parish demagogue. He led 
The crowd ; he taught them justice, 

truth, and peace. 
In semblance ; but he lit within their 

souls 
The quenchless flames of zeal, and blest 

the sword ' 
He brought on earth to satiate with the 

blood 
Of truth and freedom his malignant 

soul. 
At length his mortal frame was led to 

death. 
I stood beside him : on the torturing 

cross 
No pain assailed his unterrestrial 

sense ; 
And yet he groaned. Indignantly I 

summed 
The massacres and miseries which his 

name 
Had sanctioned in my country, and I 

cried, 
" Go ! go ! " in mockery. 
A smile of godlike malice reillumined 
His fading lineaments.— " I go," he 

cried, 
" But thou Shalt wander o'er the un- 
quiet earth 
Eternally." The dampness of the 

grave 
Bathed my imperishable front. I fell. 
And long lay tranced upon the charmed 

soil. 
When I awoke hell burned within my 

brain. 
Which staggered on its seat ; for all 

around 
The mouldering relics of my kindred 

lay. 
Even as the Almighty's ire arrested 

them. 
And in their various attitudes of death 
My murdered children's mute and eye- 
loss skulls 
Glared ghastily upon me. 

But my soul. 
From sight and sense of the polluting 

woe 
Of tyranny, had long learned to prefer 
Hell's freedom to the servitude of heav- 
en. 
Therefore I rose, and dauntlessly began 
My lonely and unending pilgrimage. 
Resolved to wage unweariable war 
With my almighty tyrant, and to hurl 
Defiance at his impotence to harm 



24 



QUEEN MAB. 



Beyond the curse I bore. The very 
hand 

That barred my passage to the peace- 
ful grave 

Has crushed the earth to misery, and 
given 

Its empire to the chosen of his slaves. 

These have I seen, even from the earli- 
est dawn 

Of weak, unstable and precarious 
power ; 

Then preaching peace, as now they 
practise war, 

So, when they turned but from the 
massacre 

Of unoffending infidels, to quench 

Their thirst for ruin in the very blood 

That flowed in their own veins, and 
pitiless zeal 

Froze every human feeling, as the wife 

Sheathed in her husband's heart the 
sacred steel, 

Even whilst its hopes were dreaming 
of her love ; 

And friends to friends, brothers to 
brothers stood 

Opposed in bloodiest battle-field, and 
war, 

Scarce satiable by fate's last death- 
draught waged. 

Drunk from the winepress of the Al- 
mighty's wrath ; 

Whilst the red cross, in mockery of 
peace. 

Pointed to victory ! When the fray 
was done. 

No remnant of the exterminated faith 

Survived to tell its ruin, but the flesh, 

With putrid smoke poisoning the at- 
mosphere. 

That rotted on the half-extinguished 
pile. 



Yes 1 I have seen God's worshippers 

unsheathe 
The sword of his revenge, when grace 

descended, 
Confirming all unnatural impulses. 
To sanctify their desolating deeds ; 
And frantic priests waved the ill- 
omened cross 
O'er the unhappy earth : then shone 

the sun 
On flowei's of gore from the up flashing 

steel 
Of safe assassination, and all crime 
Made stingless by the spirits of the 

Lord, 
And blood-red rainbows canopied the 

land. 
Spirit ! no year of my eventful being 



Has passed unstained by crime and 

misery. 
Which flows from God's own faith. I've 

marked his slaves 
With tongues whose lies are venomous, 

beguile 
The insensate mob, and, whilst one 

hand was red 
With murder, feign to stretch the other 

out 
For brotherhood and peace ; and that 

they now 
Babble of love and mercy, whilst their 

deeds 
Are marked with all the narrowness 

and crime 
That freedom's young arm dare not yet 

chastise. 
Reason may claim our gratitude, who 

now 
Establishing the imperishable throne 
Of truth, and stubborn virtue, maketh 

vain 
The unprevailing malice of my foe, 
Whose bootless rage heaps torments 

for the brave, 
Adds impotent eternities to pain, 
Whilst keenest disappointment racks 

his breast 
To see the smiles of peace around them 

play. 
To frustrate or to sanctify their doom. 

Thus have I stood,— through a wild 

waste of years 
Struggling with whirlwinds of mad 

agony, 
Yet peaceful, and serene, and self- 
enshrined. 
Mocking my powerless tyrant's horrible 

curse 
With stubborn and unalterable will. 
Even as a giant oak, which heaven's 

fierce flame 
Had scathed in the wilderness, to stand 
A monument of fadeless ruin there ; 
Yet peacefully and movelessly it braves 
The midnight conflict of the wintry 
storm. 
As in the sunlight's calm it spreads 
Its worn and withered arms on high 
To meet the quiet of a summer's noon. 
The Fairy waved her wand : 
Ahasuerus fled 
Fast as the shapes of mingled shade 

and mist. 
That lurk in the glens of a twilight 
grove. 
Flee from the morning beam : 
The matter of which dreams are 
made 



QUEEN MAB. 



25 



Not more endowed with actual life 
Than this phantasmal portraiture 
Of wandering human thought. 

VIII. 

The present and the past thou hast 

beheld : 
It was a desolate sight. Now, Spirit, 
learn 
The secrets of the future.— Time ! 
Unfold the brooding pinion of thy 

gloom, 
Render thou up thy half-devoured 

babes, 
And from the cradles of eternity. 
Where millions lie lulled to their por- 
tioned sleep 
By the deep nmrniuring stream of 

passing things, 
Tear thou that gloomy shroud. — Spirit, 
behold 
Thy glorious destiny ! 

Joy to the Spirit came. 
Through the wide rent in Time's eter- 
nal veil, 
Hope was seen beaming through the 
mists of fear : 
Earth was no longer hell ; 
Love, freedom, health, had given 
Their ripeness to the manhood of its 
prime, 
And all its pulses beat 
Symphonious to the planetary spheres : 

Then dulcet music swelled 
Concordant with the life-strings of the 

.soul ; 
It throbbed in sweet and languid beat- 
ings there. 
Catching new life from transitory 

death,— 
Like the vague sighings of a wind at 

even. 
That wakes the wavelets of the slum- 
bering sea 
And dies oh the creation of its breath, 
And sinks and rises, fails and swells 
by fits : 
Was the pure stream of feeling 
That sprung from these sweet 
notes, 
And o'er the Spirit's human sympathies 
With mild and gentle motion calmly 
flowed. 

Joy to the Spirit came,— 
Such joy as when a lover sees 
The chosen of his soul in happiness. 

And witnesses her peace 
Whose woe to him were bitterer than 
death, 
Sees her unfaded cheek 



Glow mantling in first luxury of health, 
Thrills with her lovely eyes. 

Which like two stars amid the heav- 
ing main 
Sparkle through liqtiid bliss. 

Then in her triumph spoke the Fairy 

Queen : 
I will not call the ghost of ages gone 
To unfold the frightful secrets of its 
lore ; 
The present now is past, 
And those events that desolate the 

earth 
Have faded from the memory of Time, 
Who dares not give reality to that 
Whose being I annul. To me is given 
The wonders of the human world to 

keep. 
Space, matter, time, and mind. Fu- 
turity 
Exposes now its treasure ; let the sight 
Renew and strengthen all thy failing 

hOi)e. 
human Spirit ! sptir thee to the goal 
Where virtue fixes universal peace, 
And midst the ebb and flow of human 

things. 
Show somewhat stable, somewhat cer- 
tain still, 
A lighthouse o'er the wild of dreary 
waves. 

The habitable earth is full of bliss : 

Those wastes of frozen billows that 
were hurled 

By everlasting snowstorms round the 
poles, 

Where matter dared not vegetate or 
live. 

But ceaseless frost round the vast soli- 
tude 

Bound its broad zone of stillness, are 
unloosed ; 

And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy 
isles 

Rutfle the placid ocean-deep, that rolls 

Its broad, bright surges to the sloping 
sand. 

Whose roar is wakened into echoings 
sweet 

To murmur through the heaven- 
breathing groves 

And melodize with man's blest nature 
there. 

Those deserts of immeasurable sand, 
Whose age-collected fervors scarce 

allowed 
A bird to live, a blade of grass to spring. 
Where the shrill chirp of the green 

lizard's love 



sr, 



QUEEN MAB. 



Broke on the sultry silentness alone, 

Now teem with countless rills and 
shady woods, 

Cornfields and pastures and white cot- 
tages ; 

And where the startled wilderness be- 
held 

A savage conqueror stained in kindred 
blood, 

A tigress sating with the flesh of lambs 

The unnatural famine of her toothless 
cubs. 

Whilst shouts and bowlings through 
the desert rang. 

Sloping and smooth the daisy-spangled 
lawn, 

Offering sweet incense to the sunrise, 
smiles 

To see a babe before his mother's door, 
Sharing his morning's meal 
With the green and golden basilisk 
That comes to lick his feet. 

Those trackless deeps, where many a 
weary sail 

Has seen above the illimitable plain. 

Morning on night, and night on morn- 
ing rise, 

Whilst still no land to greet the wan- 
derer spread 

Its shadowy mountains on the sun- 
bright sea, 

Where the loud roarings of the tem- 
pest-waves 

So long have mingled with the gusty 
wind 

In melancholy loneliness, and swept 

The desert of those ocean solitudes. 

But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing 
shriek. 

The bellowing monster, and the rush- 
ing storm, 

Now to the sweet and many-mingling 
sounds 

Of kindliest human impulses respond. 

Those lonely realms bright garden-isles 
begem, 

With lightsome clouds and shining seas 
between, 

And fertile valleys, resonant with bliss. 

Whilst green woods overcanopy the 
wave. 

Which like a toil-worn laborer leaps to 
shore. 

To meet the kisses of the flowrets 
there. 



All things are recreated, and the flame 
Of consentaneous love inspires all life : 
The fertile bosom of the earth gives 
suck 



To myriads, who still grow beneath her 
care, 

Rewarding her with their pure perfect- 
ness : 

The balmy breathings of the wind in- 
hale 

Her virtues, and diffuse them all 
abroad : 

Health floats amid the gentle atmos- 
phere. 

Glows in the fruits, and mantles on 
the stream : 

No storms deform the beaming brow 
of heaven, 

Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride 

The foliage of the ever-verdant trees ; 

But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever 
fair, 

And autumn proudly bears her matron 
grace. 

Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of 
spring. 

Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy 
fruit 

Reflects its tint and blushes into love. 



The lion now forgets to thirst for blood : 

There might you see him sporting in 
the sun 

Beside the dreadlesskid ; his claws are 
sheathed. 

His teeth are harmless, custom's force 
has made 

His nature as the nature of a lamb. 

Like passion's fruit, the nightshade's 
tempting bane 

Poisons no more the pleasure it be- 
stows : 

All bitterness is past ; the cup of joy 

Unmingled mantles to the goblet's 
brim. 

And courts the thirsty lips it fled be- 
fore. 



But chief, ambiguous man, he that can 

know 
More misery, and dream more joy than 

all; 
Whose keen sensations thrill within his 

breast 
To linger with a loftier instinct there, 
Lending their power to pleasure and 

to pain. 
Yet raising, sharpening, and refining 

each ; 
Who stands amid the ever-varying 

world. 
The burthen or the glory of the earth; 
He chief perceives the change, his 

being notes 



QUEEN MAB. 



27 



The gradual renovation, and defines 
Each movement of his progress on his 
mind. 

Man, where the gloom of the long polar 

night 
Lowers o'er the snow-clad rocks and 

frozen soil, 
WTiere scarce the hardiest herb that 

braves the frost 
Basks in the moonlight's ineffectual 

glow. 
Shrank with the plants, and darkened 

with the night ; 
His chilled and narrow energies, his 

heart. 
Insensible to courage, truth, or love, 
His stunted stature and imbecile 

frame, 
Marked him for some abortion of the 

earth. 
Fit compeer of the bears that roamed 

around, 
"Whose habits and enjoyments were his 

own : 
His life a feverish dream of stagnant 

woe, 
Whose meagre wants but scantily ful- 
filled. 
Apprized him ever of the joyless length 
Which his short being's wretchedness 

had reached ; 
His death a pang which famine, cold 

and toil 
Long on the mind, whilst yet the vital 

spark 
Clung to the body stubbornly, had 

brought : 
All was inflicted here that earth's re- 
venge 
Could wreak on the infringers of her 

law ; 
One curse alone was spared— the name 

of God. 

Nor where the tropics bound the realms 

of day 
With a broad belt of mingling cloud 

and flame, 
Where blue mists through the un- 

moving atmosphere 
Scattered the seeds of pestilence, and 

fed 
Unnatural vegetation, where the land 
Teemed with all earthquake, tempest 

and disease, 
Was man a nobler being ; slavery 
Had crushed him to his country's blood- 
stained dust ; 
Or he was bartered for the fame of 

power, 
Which all internal impul.ses de.stroying, 



Makes human will an article of trade ; 
Or he was changed with Christians for 

their gold, 
And dragged to distant isles, where to 

the sound 
Of the flesh-mangling scourge, he does 

the work 
Of all-polluting luxury and wealth, 
Which doubly visits on the tyrants' 

heads 
Thp long-protracted fulness of their 

woe ; 
Or he was led to legal butchery, 
To turn to worms beneath that burn- 
ing sun. 
Where kings first leagued against the 

rights of men. 
And priests first traded with the name 

of God. 

Even where the milder zone alTorded 

man 
A seeming shelter, yet contagion there. 
Blighting his being with unnumbered 

ills, 
Spread like a quenchless fire ; nor 

truth till late 
Availed to arrest its progress, or create 
That peace which first in bloodless 

victory waved 
Her snowy standard o'er this favored 

clime : 
There man was long the train-bearer 

of slaves. 
The mimic of surrounding misery. 
The jackal of ambition's lion-rage, 
The bloodhound of religion's hungry 

zeal. 

Here now the human being stands 
adorning 

This loveliest earth with taintless body 
and mind ; 

Blest from his birth with all bland im- 
pulses, 

Which gently in his noble bosom wake 

All kindly passions and all pure desires. 

Him, still from hope to hope the bliss 
pursuing 

Which from the exhaustless lore of 
human weal 

Draws on the virtuous mind, the 
thoughts that rise 

In time-destroying infiniteness, gift 

With self-enshrined eternity, that 
mocks 

The unprevailing hoariness of age, 

And man, once fleetmg o'er the tran- 
sient scene 

Swift as an unremembered vision, 
stands 

Immortal upon earth : no longer now 



QUEEN MAB. 



He slays the lamb that looks him in the 

face. 
And horribly devours his mangled 

flesh, 
Which, still avenging nature's broken 

law, 
Kindled all putrid humors in his frame, 
All evil passions, and all vain belief, 
Hatred, despair, and loathing in his 

mind. 
The germs of misery, death, disease, 

and crime. 
No longer now the winged habitants, 
That in the woods their sweet lives sing 

away. 
Flee from the form of man ; but gather 

round, 
And prune their sunny feathers on the 

hands 
Which little children stretch in friendly 

sport 
Towards these dreadless partners of 

their play. 
All things are void of terror : man has 

lost 
His terrible prerogative, and stands 
An equal amidst equals : happiness 
And science dawn though late upon 

the earth ; 
Peace cheers the mind, health reno- 
vates their frame : 
Disease and pleasure cease to mingle 

here, 
Reason and passion cease to combat 

there ; 
Whilst each unfettered o'er the earth 

extend 
Their all-.subduing energies, and wield 
The sceptre of a vast dominion there ; 
Whilst every shape and mode of matter 

lends 
Its force to the omnipotence of mind. 
Which from its dark mine drags the 

gem of truth 
To decorate its paradise of peace. 

IX. 

() HAPPY Earth ! reality of Heaven ! 

To which those restless souls that cease- 
lessly 

Throng through the human universe, 
aspire ; 

Thou consummation of all mortal hope ! 

Thou glorious prize of blindlv-working 
will ! 

Whose rays diffused throughout all 
space and time, 

Verge to one point and blend forever 
there : 

Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling- 
place ! 



Where care and sorrow, impotence 

and crime. 
Languor, disease, and ignorance dare 

not come : 
O happy Earth, reality of Heaven ! 

Genius has seen thee in her passionate 

dreams. 
And dim forebodings of thy loveliness 
Haunting the human heart, have there 

entwined 
Those rooted hopes of some sweet place 

of bliss 
Where friends and lovers meet to part 

no more. 
Thou art the end of all desire and will, 
The product'of all action ; and the souls 
That by the paths of an aspiring 

change 
Have reached thy haven of perpetual 

peace. 
There I'est from the eternity of toil 
That framed the fabric of thy perfect- 

ness. 

Even Time, the conqueror, fled thee in 

his fear ; 
That hoary giant, who, in lonely pride. 
So long had ruled the world, that 

nations fell 
Beneath his silent footstep. Pyra- 
mids, 
That for millenniums had withstood 

the tide 
Of human things, his storm-breath 

drove in sand 
Across that desert where their stones 

survived 
The name of him whose pride had 

heaped them there. 
Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp. 
Was but the mushroom of a summer 

day. 
That his light-winged footstep pressed 

to dust : 
Time was the king of earth : all things 

gave way 
Before him, but the fixed and virtuous 

will. 
The sacred sympathies of soul and 

sense. 
That mocked his fury and prepared his 

fall. 

Yet slow and gradual dawned the 

morn of love ; 
Long lay the clouds of darkness o'er 

the scene. 
Till from its native heaven they rolled 

away : 
First, crime triumphant o'er all hope 

careered 



QUEEN M>B. 



29 



Unblushing, undisguising, bold and 

strong ; 
Whilst falsehood, tricked in virtue's 

attributes, 
Long sanctified all deeds of vice and 

woe, 
Till done by her own venomous sting 

to death. 
She left the mural world without a 

law, 
No longer fettering passion's fearless 

wing, 
Nor searing reason with the brand of 

God. 
Then steadily the happy ferment 

worked ; 
Reason was free ; and wild though 

passion went 
Through tangled glens and wood-em- 
bosomed meads, 
Gathering a garland of the strangest 

flowers. 
Yet like the bee returning to her 

queen, 
She bound the sweetest on her sister's 

brow. 
Who meek and sober kissed the sport- 
ive child. 
No longer trembling at the broken rod. 

Mild was the slow necessity of death : 

The tranquil spirit failed beneath its 
grasp. 

Without a groan, almost without a 
fear. 

Calm as a voj'ager to some distant 
land, 

And full of wonder, full of hope as he. 

The deadly germs of languor and dis- 
ease 

Died in the human frame, and purity 

Blest with all gifts her earthly wor- 
shippers. 

How vigorous then the athletic form of 
age ! 

How clear its open and unwrinkled 
brow ! 

Where neither avarice, cunning, pride, 
nor care. 

Had stamped the seal of grav deform- 
ity 

On all the mingling lineaments of time. 

How lovely the intrepid front of youth ! 

Which nieek-eyed courage decked 
with freshest grace ; 

Courage of soul, that dreaded not a 
name, 

And elevated will, that journeyed on 

Through life's phantasmal scene in 
fearlessness, 

With virtue, love, and pleasure, hand 
in hand. 



Then, that sweet bondage which is 

freedom's self, 
And rivets with sensation's softest tie 
The kindred sympathies of human 

souls, 
Needed no fetters of tyrannic law : 
Those delicate and timid impulses 
In nature's primal modesty arose. 
And with undoubted confidence dis- 
closed 
The growing longings of its dawning 

love, 
Unchecked by dull and selfish chastity, 
That virtue of the cheaply virtuous, 
Who pride themselves in senselessness 

and frost. 
No longer prostitution's venomed bane 
Poisoned the springs of happiness and 

life; 
Woman and man, in confidence and 

love, 
Equal and free and pure together trod 
The mountain-paths of virtue, which 

no more 
Were stained with blood from many a 

pilgrim's feet. 

Then, where, through distant ages, 

long in pride 
The palace of the monarch-slave had 

mocked 
Famine's faint groan, and penury's 

silent tear, 
A heap of crumbling ruins stood, and 

threw 
Year after year their stones upon the 

field. 
Wakening a lonely echo ; and the 

leaves 
Of the old thorn, that on the topmost 

tower 
Usurped the royal ensign's grandeur, 

shook 
In the stern storm that swayed the top- 
most tower 
And whispered strange tales in the 

whirlwind's ear. 

Low through the lone cathedral's roof- 
less aisles 

The melancholy winds a death-dirge 
sung : 

It were a sight of awfulness to see 

The works of faith and slavery, so 
vast. 

So sumptuous, yet so perishing withal ! 

Even as the corpse that rests beneath 
its wall. 

A thousand mourners deck the pomp 
of death 

To-day, the breathihg marble glows 
above 



30 



QUEEN MAB. 



To decorate its memory, and tongues 
Are busy of its life : to-morrow, worms 
In silence and in darkness seize their 
prey. 

Within the massy prison's mouldering 
courts, 

Fearless and free the ruddy children 
played, 

Weaving gay chaplets for their inno- 
cent brows 

With the green ivy and the red wall- 
flower. 

That mock the dungeon's unavailing 
gloom ; 

The ponderous chains, and gratings of 
strong iron, 

There rusted amid heaps of broken 
stone 

That mingled slowly with their native 
earth : 

There the broad beam of day, which 
feebly once 

Lighted the cheek of lean captivity 

With a pale and sickly glare, then 
freely shone 

On the pure smiles of infant playful- 
ness : 

No more the shuddering voice of 
hoarse despair 

Pealed through the echoing vaults, but 
soothing notes 

Of ivy-fingered winds and gladsome 
birds 

And merriment were resonant around. 

These ruins soon left not a wreck be- 
hind : 
Their elements, wide scattered o'er the 

globe. 
To happier shapes were moulded, and 

became 
Ministrant to all blissful impulses : 
Thus human things were perfected, 

and earth. 
Even as a child beneath its mother's 

love, 
Was strengthened in all excellence, and 

grew 
Fairer and nobler with each passing 

year. 

Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the 

scene 
Closes in steadfast darkness, and the 

past 
Fades from our charmed sight. My 

task is done : 
Thy lore is learned. Earth's wonders 

are thine own. 
With all the fear and all the hope they 

bring. 



My spells are past : the present now 
recurs. 

Ah me ! a pathless wilderness remains 

Yet unsubdued by man's reclaiming 
hand. 

Yet, human Spirit, bravely hold thy 
course. 

Let virtue teach thee firmly to pursue 

The gradual paths of an aspiring 
change : 

For birth and life and death, and that 
strange state 

Before the naked soul has found its 
home, 

All tend to perfect happiness, and urge 

The restless wheels of being on their 
way. 

Whose flashing spokes, instinct with 
infinite life, 

Bicker and burn to gain their destined 
goal : 

For birth but wakes the spirit to the 
sense 

Of outward shows, whose unexperi- 
enced shape 

New modes of passion to its frame may 
lend ; 

Life is its state of action, and the store 

Of all events is aggregated there 

That variegate the eternal universe ; 

Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom. 

That leads to azure isles and beaming- 
skies 

And happy regions of eternal hope. 

Therefore, O Spirit ! fearlessly bear on : 

Though storms may break the primrose 
on its stalk, 

Though frosts may blight the freshness 
of its bloom, 

Yet spring's awakening breath will 
woo the earth. 

To feed with kindliest dews its favor- 
ite flower. 

That blooms in mossy banks and dark- 
some glens. 

Lighting the green wood with its 
sunny smile. 



Fear not then, Spirit, death's disrobing 
hand. 

So welcome when the tyrant is awake, 

So welcome when the bigot's hell-torch 
burns ; 

'Tis but the voyage of a darksome 
hour, 

The transient gulph-dream of a start- 
ling sleep. 

Death is no foe to virtue : earth has 
seen 

Love's brightest roses on the scaffold 
bloom, 



QUEEN MAB. 



31 



Mingling with freedom's fadeless 

laurels there, 
And presaging the truth of visioned 

bliss. 
Are there not hopes within thee, which 

this scene 
Of linked and gradual being has con- 

tirmed ? 
Whose stingings bade thy heart look 

further still, 
When, to the moonlight walk by Henry 

led, 
Sweetly and sadly thou didst talk of 

death ? 
And wilt thou rudely tear them from 

thy breast, 
Listening supinely to a bigot's creed, 
Or tamely crouching to the tyrant's 

rod, 
Whose iron thongs are red with human 

gore '^ 
Never : but bravely bearing on, thy 

will 
Is destined an eternal war to wage 
With tyranny and falsehood, and up- 
root 
The germs of misery from the human 

heart. 
Thine is the hand whose piety would 

soothe 
The thorny pillow of unhappy crime, 
Whose impotence an easy pardon 

gains. 
Watching its wanderings as a friend's 

disease : 
Thine is the brow whose mildness 

would defy 
Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest 

will, 
When fenced by power and master of 

the world. 
Thou art sincere and good ; of resolute 

mind. 
Free from heart-withering custom's 

cold control. 
Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued. 
Earth's pride and meanness could not 

vanquish thee. 
And therefore art thou worthy of the 

boon 
Which thou has now received : virtue 

shall keep 
Thy footsteps in the path that thou 

hast trod, 
And many days of beaming hope shall 

bless 
Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred 

love. 
Go, happy one, and give that bosom joy 
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 
Light, life and rapture from thy 

smile. 



The Fairy waves her wand of charm. 
Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts 
the car, 
That rolled beside the battlement. 
Bending her beamy eyes in thankful- 
ness. 
Again the enchanted steeds were 

yoked. 
Again the burning wheels inflame 
The steep descent of heaven's untrod- 
den way 
Fast and far the chariot flew : 
The vast and fiery globes that rolled 
Around the Fairy's palace-gate 
Lessened by slow degrees and soon ap- 
peared 
Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs 
That there attendant on the solar 

power 
With borrowed light pursued their 
narrower way. 

Earth floated then below : 
The chariot paused a moment there ; 
The Spirit then descended : 
The restless cour.sers pawed the un- 

genial soil, 
Snuffed the gi-oss air, and then, their 

eiTand done. 
Unfurled their pinions to the winds of 
heaven. 

The Body and the Soul united then, 
A gentle start convulsed lanthe's 

frame : 
Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed ; 
Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs re- 
mained : 
She looked around in wonder and be- 
held 
Henry, who kneeled in silence by her 

couch. 
Watching her sleep with looks ot 
speechless love. 
And the bright beaming stars 
That through the casement shone. 

To THE Editor of the "Examiner." 

Sir, 

Having heard that a poem entitled 
" Queen Mab " has been surreptitiously 
published in London, and that legal 
proceedings have been instituted 
against the publisher, I request the 
favor of your insertion of the following 
explanation of the affair, as it relates 
to rae. 

A poem entitled " Queen Mab " was 
written by me at the age of eighteen, 
I dare say in a sufficiently intemperate 



32 



THE D.EMON OF THE WORLD. 



spirit — but even then was not intended 
for publication, and a few copies only 
were struck off, to be distributed among 
my personal friends. I have not seen 
this production for several years. I 
doubt not but that it is perfectly worth- 
less in point of literary composition ; 
and that, in all that concerns moral and 
political speculation, as well as in the 
subtler discriminations of metaphysical 
and religious doctrine, it is still more 
crude and immature. I am a devoted 
enemy to religious, political and do- 
mestic oppression ; and I regret this 
publication, not so much from literary 
vanity, as because I fear it is better 
fitted to injure than to serve the sacred 
cause of freedom. I have directed my 
solicitor to apply to Chancery for an 
injunction to restrain the sale ; but, 
after the precedent of Mr. Southey's 
"Wat Tyler" (a poem written, I be- 
lieve, at the same age, and with the 
same unreflecting enthusiasm), with 
little hope of success. 

Whilst I exonerate myself from all 
share in having divulged opinions hos- 
tile to existing sanctions, under the 
form, whatever it may be, which they 
assume in this poem, it is scarcely nec- 
essary for me to protest against the 
system of inculcating the truth of 
Christianity or the excellence of Mon- 
archy, however true or however excel- 
lent they may be, by such equivocal 
arguments as confiscation and impris- 
onment, and invective and slander, 
and the insolent violation of the most 
sacred ties of Nature and society. 

Sir, 
I am your obliged and obedient servant, 
Percy B. Shelley. 

Pisa, June 23, 1821. 



THE D./EMON OF THE WORLD. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Part I. 

Nee tantum prodere vati. 
Quantum scire licet. Venit SEtas omnis in 

unam 
Congerieni, miserumque premunt tot 
ssecula pectus. 

LucAN, Phars. L. v. I. 176-178. 

How wonderful is Death, 
Death and his brother Sleep ! 
One pale as yonder wan and horned 
moon, 
With lips of lurid blue, 



The other glowing like the vital morn 
When throned on ocean's wave 
It breathes over the world ; 

Yet both so passing strange and won- 
derful ! 

Hath then the iron-sceptred Skeleton- 
Whose reign is in the tainted sepul, 

chres. 
To the hell dogs that couch beneath his 

throne 
Cast that fair prey ? Must that divin- 

est form, 
Which love and admiration cannot 

view 
Without a beating heart, whose azure 

veins 
Steal like dark streams along a field of 

snow, 
Whose outline is as fair as marble 

clothed 
In light of some sublimest mind, decay? 

Nor putrefaction's breath 
Leave aught of this pure spectacle 
But loathsomeness and ruin ?— 
Spare aught but a dark theme, 
On which the lightest heart might mor- 
alize ? 
Or is it but that downy-winged slum- 
bers 
Have charmed their mirse coy Silence, 
near her lids 
To watch their own repose ? 
Will they, when morning's beam 
Flows through those wells of light, 
Seek far from noise and day some west- 
ern cave, 
Where woods and streams with soft 
and pausing winds 
A lulling murmur weave ? — 

lauthe doth not sleep 

The dreamless sleep of death : 
Nor in her moonlight chamber silently 
Doth Henry hear her regular pulses 
throb. 

Or mark her delicate cheek 
With interchange of hues mock the 
broad moon, 

Outwatching weary night, 

Without assured reward. 

Her dewy eyes are closed ; 
On their translucent lids, whose tex- 
ture fine 
Scarce hides the dark blue orbs that 
burn below 

With unapparent fire, 

The baby Sleep is pillowed : 

Her golden tresses shade 

The bosom's stainless pride. 
Twining like tendrils of the parasite 

Around a marble column. 



THE DAEMON OP THE WORLD. 



33 



Hark ! whence that rushinc: sound? 
'T is like a wondrous strain that 

sweeps 
Around a lonely ruin 
When west winds' sigh and evening 
waves respond 
In whispers from the shore : 
'T is wilder than the unmeasured notes 
Which from the unseen lyres of dells 
and groves 
The genii of the breezes sweep. 
Floating on waves of music and of 

light 
The chariot of the Dsemon of the World 

Descends in silent power : 
Its shape reposed within : slight as 

some cloud 
That catches but the palest tinge of day 

When evening yields to night; 
Bright as that fibrous woof when stars 
endue 
Its transitory robe. 
Four shapeless shadows bright and 

beautiful 
Draw that strange car of glory, reins 

of light 
Check their unearthly speed ; they 
stop and fold 
Their wings of braided air : 
The Daemon leaning from the ethereal 
car 
Gazed on the slumbering maid. 
Human eye hath ne'er beheld 
A shape so wild, so bright, so beautiful, 
As that which o'er the maiden's 
charmed sleep 
Waving a starry wand. 
Hung like a mist of light. 
Such sounds as breathed around like 
odorous winds 
Of wakening spring arose. 
Filling the chamber and the moonlight 
sky. 

" Maiden, the world's supremest spirit 
Beneath the shadow of her wings 
Folds all thy memory doth inherit 
From ruin of diviiiest things, 
Feelings that lure thee to betray, 
And light of thoughts that pass 
away. 
"For thou hast earned a mighty boon, 
The truths which wisest poets see 
Dimly, thy mind may make its own. 
Rewarding its own majesty, 
Entranced in some diviner mood 
Of self-oblivious solitude. 

"Custom, and Faith, and Power thou 
spurnest ; 
From hate and awe thy heart is 
free ; 

3 



Ardent and pure as day thou burnest. 
For dark and cold mortality 
A living light, to cheer it long, 
The watch-fires of the world 
among. 

" Therefore from nature's inner shrine, 
Where gods and fiends in worship 
bend, 
Majestic spirit, be it thine 

The flame to seize, the veil to rend. 
Where the vast snake Eternity 
In charmed sleep doth ever lie. 

" All that inspires thy voice of love, 
Or speaks in thy unclosing eyes, 
Or through thy frame doth burn or 
move. 
Or think or feel, awake, arise ! 
Spirit, leave for mine and me 
Earth's unsubstantial mimicry ! " 

It ceased, and from the mute and 
moveless frame 
A radiant spirit arose. 
All Beautiful in naked purity. 
Robed in its human hues it did ascend. 
Disparting as it went the silver clouds 
It moved towards the car. and took its 
seat 
Beside the Dsemon shape. 

Obedient to the sweep of aery song, 

The mighty ministers 
Unfurled their prismy wings. 

The magic car moved on ; 
The night was fair, innumerable stars 

Studded heaven's dark blue vault ; 

The eastern wave grew pale 

With the first .smile of morn. 

The magic car moved on. 
From the swift sweep of wings 
The atmosphere in flaming sparkles 
flew ; 
And where the burning wheels 
Eddied above the mountain's loftiest 
peak 
Was traced a line of lightning. 
Now far above a rock the utmost verge 

Of the wide earth it flew, 
The rival of the Andes, whose dark 
brow 
Frowned o'er the silver sea. 

Far, far below the chariot's stormy 
path. 

Calm as a slumbering babe, 

Tremendous ocean lay. 
Its broad and silent mirror gave to view 

Tlic pale iiiul waning stars. 

The chariot's fiery track, 



34 



THE D^MON OF THE WORLD. 



And the gray light of morn 
Tingeing those fleecy clouds 
That cradled in their fo"lds the infant 
dawn. 
The chariot seemed to fly 
Through the abyss of an immense con- 
cave, 
Radiant with million constellations, 
tinged 
With shades of infinite color, 
And semicircled with a belt 
Plashing incessant meteors. 

As they approached their goal 
The winged shadows seemed to gather 

speed. 
The sea no longer was distinguished ; 

earth 
Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere, 
suspended 
In the black concave of heaven 
With the sun's cloudless orb, 
Whose rays of rapid light 
Parted around the chariot's swifter 

course, 
And fell like ocean's feathery spray 
Dashed from the boiling surge 
Before a vessel's prow. 

The magic car moved on. 
Earth's distant orb appeared 
The smallest light that twinkles in the 
heavens, 
Whilst round the chariot's way 
Innumerable systems widely rolled, 
And countless spheres diffused, 
An ever varying glory. 
It was a sight of wonder ! Some were 

horned, 
And, like the moon's argentine cres- 
cent hung 
In the dark dome of heaven ; some did 

shed 
A clear mild beam like Hesperus, while 

the sea 
Yet glows with fading sunlight ; 

others dashed 
Athwart the night with trains of bick- 
ering fire. 
Like sphered worlds to death and ruin 

driven ; 
Some shone like stars, and as the char- 
iot passed 
Bedimmed all other light. 

Spirit of Nature ! here 
In this interminable wilderness 
Of worlds, at whose involved immen- 
sity 
Even soaring fancy staggers, 
Here is thy fitting temple. 



Yet not the lightest leaf 
That quivers to the passing breeze 

Is less instinct with thee, — 

Yet not the meanest Avorm, 
That lurks in graves and fattens on the 
dead 

Less shares thy eternal breath. 

Spirit of Nature ! thou 
Imperishable as this glorious scene, 

Here is thy fitting temple. 

If solitude hath ever led thy steps 
To the shore of the immeasurable sea. 
And thou hast lingered there 
Until the sun's broad orb 
Seemed resting on the fiery line of 

ocean 
Thou must have marked the braided 
webs of gold 
That without motion hang 
Over the sinking sphere : 
Thou must have marked the billowy 

mountain clouds. 
Edged with intolerable radiancy, 
Towering like rocks of jet 
Above the burning deep : 
And yet there is a moment 
When the sun's highest point 
Peers like a star o'er ocean's western 

edge. 
When those far clouds of featheiy pur- 
ple gleam 
Like fairy lands girt by some heavenly 

sea : 
Then has thy rapt imagination soared 
Where in the midst of all existing 

things 
The temple of the mightiest Daemon 
stands. 

Yet not the golden islands 
That gleam amid you flood of purple 
light, 
Nor the feathery curtains 
That canopy the sun's resplendent 
couch. 
Nor the burnished ocean waves 
Paving that gorgeous dome. 
So fair, so wonderful a sight 
As the eternal temple could afford. 
The elements of all that human 

thought 
Can frame of lovely or sublime, did 

join 
To rear the fabric of the fane, nor 

aught 
Of earth may image forth its majesty. 
Yet likest evening's vault that faery 

hall. 
As heaven low resting on the wave it 
spread 



THE D.EMON OF THE WORLD. 



35 



Its floors of flashing light, 
Its vast and azure dome ; 
And on the verge of that obscure abyss 
Where crystal battlements o'erhang 

the gulf 
Of the dark world, ten thousand 

spheres diffuse 
Their lustre through its adamantine 
gates. 

The magic car no longer moved ; 
The Dcemon and the Spirit 
Entered the eternal gates. 
Those clouds of aery gold 
That slept in glittering billows 
Beneath the azure canopy. 
With the ethereal footsteps trembled 
not ; 
While slight and odorous mists 
Floated to strains of thrilling melody 
Through the vast columns and the 
pearly shrines. 

The Daemon and the Spirit 
Approached the overhanging battle- 
ment. 
Below lay stretched the boundless uni- 
verse ! 
There, far as the remotest line 
That limits swift imagination's flight. 
Unending orbs mingled in mazy mo- 
tion. 
Immutably fulfilling 
Eternal Nature's law. 
Above, below, around. 
The circling systems formed 
A wilderness of harmony. 
Each with undeviating aim 
In eloquent silence througli the depths 
of space 
Pursued its wondn)us way. — 

Awhile the Spirit paused in ecstasy. 

Yet soon she saw, as the vast spheres 
swept by, 

Strange things within their belted orbs 
appear. 

Like animated frenzies, dimly moved 

Shadows, and skeletons, and fiendly 
shapes, 

Thronging round human graves, and 
o'er the dead 

Sculpturing records for each memory 

In verse, such as malignant gods pro- 
nounce, 

Blasting the hopes of men, when heav- 
en and hell 

Confounded burst iu ruin o'er the 
world : 

And they did build vast trophies, in- 
• struments 



Of murder, human bones, barbaric 
gold. 

Skins torn from living men, and towers 
of skulls 

With sightless holes gazing on blinder 
heaven, 

Mitres, and crowns, and brazen char- 
iots stained 

With blood, and scrolls of mystic wick- 
edness, 

The sanguine codes of venerable crime. 

The likeness of a throned king came by. 

When these had past, bearing upon his 
brow 

A threefold crown ; his countenance 
was calm. 

His eye severe and cold ; but his right 
hand 

Was charged with bloody coin, and he 
did gnaw 

By fits, with .secret smiles, a human 
heart 

Concealed beneath his robe ; and mot- 
ley shapes, 

A multitudinous throng, around him 
knelt, 

With bosoms bare, and bowed heads, 
and false looks 

Of true submission, as the sphere rolled 
by, 

Brooking no eye to witness their foul 
shame, 

Which human hearts must feel, while 
human tongues 

Tremble to speak, they did rage horri- 
bly, 

Breathing in self contempt fierce blas- 
phemies 

Against the Daemon of the World, and 
high 

Hurling their armed hands where the 
pure Spirit, 

Serene and inaccessibly secure, 

Stood on an isolated pinnacle, 

The flood of ages combating below, 

The depth of the unbounded imiverse 
Above, and all around 

Necessity's unchanging harmony. 

Pakt II. 

O HAPPY Earth ! reality of Heaven ! 
To which those restless powers that 

ceaselessly 
Throng through the human universe, 

aspire ; 
Thou consummation of all mortal hope ! 
Thou glorious prize of blindly-working 

will ! 
Whose rays, diffused throughout all 

space and time, 



36 



THE D^MON OF THE WORLD. 



Verge to one point and blend forever 
there ! 

Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling- 
place, 

Where care and sorrow, impotence and 
crime, 

Languor, disease, and ignorance dare 
not come : 

O happy Earth, reality of Heaven ! 

Genius has seen thee in her passion- 
ate dreams. 

And dim forebodings of thy loveliness 

Haunting the human heart have there 
entwined 

Those rooted hopes, that the proud 
Power of Evil 

Shall not forever on this fairest world 

Shake pestilence and war, or that his 
slaves 

With blasphemy for prayer, and 
human blood 

For sacrifice, before his shrine forever 

In adoration bend, or Erebus 

With all its banded fiends shall not up- 
rise 

To overwhelm in envy and revenge 

The dauntless and the good, who dare 
to hurl 

Defiance at his throne, girt tho' it be 

With Death's omnipotence. Thou hast 
beheld 

His empire, o'er the present and the 
past ; 

It was a desolate sight — now gaze on 
mine, 

Futurity. Thou hoary giant Time, 

Render' thou up thy half-devoured 
babes, — 

And from the cradles of eternity, 

Where millions lie lulled to their por- 
tioned sleep 

By the deep murmuring stream of pass- 
ing things, 

Tear thou that gloomy shroud.— 
" Spirit, behold 

Thy glorious destiny ! " 

The Spirit saw 

The vast frame of the renovated world 

Smile in the lap of Chaos, and the 
sense 

Of hope thro' her fine texture did suf- 
fuse 

Such varying glow, as summer evening 
casts 

On imdulating clouds and deepening 
lakes. 

Like the vague sighings of a wind at 
even. 

That wakes the wavelets of the slum- 
bering .sea 



And dies on the creation of its breath' 
And sinks and rises, fails and swells by 

fits. 
Was the sweet stream of thought that 

with wild motion 
Flowed o'er the Spirit's human sympa- 
thies. 
The mighty tide of thought had paused 

awhile, 
Which from the Daemon now like 

Ocean's stream 
Again began to pour.— 

" To nie is given 
The wonders of the human world to 

keep — 
Space, matter, time and mind — let the 

sight 
Renew and strengthen all thy failing 

hope. 
All things are recreated, and the flame 
Of consentaneous love inspires all life : 
The fertile bosom of the earth gives 

suck 
To myriads, who still grow beneath her 

care, 
Rewarding her with their pure perfect- 

ness : 
The balmy breathings of the wind in- 
hale' 
Her virtues, and diffuse them all 

abroad : 
Health floats amid the gentle atmos- 
phere. 
Glows in the fruits, and mantles on the 

stream : 
No storms deform the beaming brow of 

heaven, 
Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride 
The foliage of the undecaying trees ; 
But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever 

fair, 
And Autumn proudly bears her matron 

grace. 
Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of 

Spring, 
Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy 

fruit 
Reflects its tint and blushes into love. 

The habitable earth is full of bliss ; 

Those wastes of frozen billows that 
were hurled 

By everlasting snow-storms round the 
poles, 

Where matter dared not vegetate nor 
live, 

But ceaseless frost round the vast soli- 
tude 

Bound its broad zone of stillness, are 
unloosed ; 

And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy 
isles 



THE D.EMON OF THE WORLD. 



37 



Ruffle the placid ooeau-deep, that rolls 

Its broad, bright surges to the sloping 
sand, 

Whose roar is wakened into echoings 
sweet 

To murmur through the heaven-breath- 
ing groves 

And melodize with man's blest nature 
there. 

"The vast tract of the parched and 
sandy waste 

Now teems with countless rills and 
shadj- woods 

L'l (rn-fields and pastures and white cot- 
tages ; 

And where the startled wilderness did 
hear 

A savage conqueror stained in kindred 
blood, 

Hymning his victory, or the milder 
snake 

Crushing the bones of some frail an- 
telope 

Within his brazen folds— the dewy 
lawn, 

Offering sweet incense to the sunri.se, 
smiles 

To see a babe before his mother's door, 

Share with the green and golden basi- 
lisk 

That comes to lick his feet, his morn- 
ing's meal. 

" Those trackless deeps, where many 
a weary sail 

Has seen above the illimitable plain. 

Morning on night, and night on morn- 
ing rise. 

Whilst still no land to greet the wan- 
derer si)read 

Its shadowy mountains on the sun- 
bright sea, 

Where the lo'ud roarings of the tem- 
pest-waves 

So long have mingled with the gusty 
wind 

In melancholy loneliness, and swept 

The desert of those ocean solitudes, 

But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing 
.shriek, 

The bellowing monster, and the rush- 
ing storm, 

Now to the sweet and many-mingling 
sounds 

Of kindliest human impulses respond : 

Those lonely realms bright garden- 
isles begem. 

With lightsome clouds and shining seas 
between, 

Ami fertile valleys, resonant with bliss, 



Whilst green woods overcanopy the 

wave. 
Which like a toil-worn laborer leaps tc 

shore, 
To meet the kisses of the flowerets 

there. 

"Man chief perceives the change; 

his being notes 
The gradual renovation, and defines 
Each movement of its progress on his 

mind. 
Man, where the gloom of the long polar 

night 
Lowered o'er the snow-clad rocks and 

frozen soil. 
Where scarce the hardest herb that 

bi-aves the frost 
Basked in the moonlight's ineffectual 

glow. 
Shrank with the plants, and darkened 

with the night ; 
Xor where the tropics bound the realms 

of day 
With a broad belt of mingling cloud 

and flame. 
Where blue mists through the uiimov- 

ing atmosphere 
Scattered the seeds of pestilence, and 

fed 
Unnatural vegetation, where the land 
Teemed with all earthquake, tempest 

and disease, 
Was man a nobler being ; slavery 
Had crushed him to his country's blood- 
stained dust. 

''Even where the milder zone af- 
forded man 
A seeming shelter, yet contagion there. 
Blighting his being with uimumbered 

ill.s. 
Spread like a quenchless fire ; nor truth 

availed 
Till late to arrest its progress, or create 
That peace which first in bloodless vic- 
tory waved 
Her snowy standard o'er this favored 

clime : 
There man was long the train-bearer 

of slaves. 
The mimic of surrounding misery. 
The jackal of ambition's lion-rage. 
The bloodhound of religion's hungry 
zeal. 

" Here now the human being stands 
adorning 
This loveliest earth with taintless body 

and mind ; 
Blest from his lui-th with all bland im- 
pulses, 



38 



THE D^MON OF THE WORLD. 



Which gently iu his noble bosom wake 

All kindly passions and all pure de- 
sires. 

Him, still from hope to hope the bliss 
pursuing, 

Which from the exhaustless lore of 
human weal 

Draws on the virtuous mind, the 
thoughts that rise 

In time-destroying infiuiteness, gift 

With self-enshrined eternity, that 
mocks 

The unprevailing hoariness of age, 

And man, once fleeting o'er the tran- 
sient scene 

Swift as an unremembered vision, 
St ands 

Immortal upon earth : no longer now 

He slays the beast that sports around 
his dwelling 

And horribly devours its mangled 
flesh. 

Or drinks its vital blood, which like a 
stream 

Of poison thro' his fevered veins did 
flow 

Feeding a plague that secretly con- 
sumed 

His feeble frame, and kindling in his 
mind 

Hatred, despair, and fear and vain 
belief. 

The germs of misery, death, disease, 
and crime. 

No longer now the winged habit- 
ants. 

That in the woods their sweet lives 
sing away. 

Flee from the form of man ; but gather 
round. 

And prune their sunny feathers on the 
hands 

Which little children stretch in 
friendly sport 

Towards these dreadless partners of 
their play. 

All things are void of terror : man has 
lost 

His desolating privilege, and stands 

An equal amidst equals : happiness 

And science dawn though late upon 
the earth ; 

Peace cheers the mind, health reno- 
vates the frame ; 

Disease and pleasure cease to mingle 
here. 

Reason and passion cease to combat 
there ; 

Whilst mind unfettered o'er the earth 
extends 

Its all-subduing energies, and wields 

The sceptre of a vast dominion there. 



" Mild is the slow necessity of death: 
The tranquil spirit fails beneath its 

grasp, 
Without a groan, almost without a 

fearj 
Resigned in peace to the necessity, 
Calm as a voyager to some distant 

land, 
And full of wonder, full of hope as he. 
The deadly germs of languor and 

disease 
Waste in the human frame, and 

Nature gifts 
With choicest boons her human wor- 
shippers. 
How vigorous now the athletic form of 

age ! 
How clear its open and unwrinkled 

brow ! 
Where neither avarice, cunning, pride, 
or care, [ity 

Had stamped the seal of gray deform- 
On all the mingling lineaments of 

time ! 
How lovely the intrepid front of 

youth ! 
How sweet the smiles of taintless in- 
fancy ! 

" Within the massy prison's moulder- 
ing courts, [play. 

Fearless and free the ruddy children 

Weaving gay chaplets for their inno- 
cent brows 

With the green ivy and the red wall- 
flower. 

That mock the dungeon's unavailing 
gloom ; 

The ponderous chains, and gratings of 
strong iron. 

There rust amid the accumulated ruins 

Now mingling slowly with their native 
earth ; 

There the broad beam of day, which 
feebly once 

Lighted the cheek of lean captivity 

With a pale and sickly glare, now 
freely shines 

On the pure smiles of infant playful- 
ness : 

No more the shuddering voice of 
hoarse despair 

Peals through the echoing vaults, but 
soothing notes 

Of ivy-fingered winds and gladsome 
birds 

And merriment are re.sonant around. 

"The fanes of Fear and Falsehood 
hear no more 
The voice that once waked multitudes 
to war 



THE D^CMON OF THE WOULD. 



30 



Thundering thro' all their aisles : Vnit 

now respond 
To the death dirge of the melancholy 

wind : 
It were a sight of awfulness to see 
The works of faith and slavery, so 

vast, 
So sumptuous, yet withal so perishing I 
Even as the corpse that rests beneath 

their wall ! 
A thousand mourners deck the pomp 

of death 
To-day, the breathing marble glows 

above 
To decorate its memory, and tongues 
Are busy of its life ; tomorrow, worms 
In silence and in darkness seize their 

prey. 
These ruins soon leave not a wreck be- 
hind : 
Their elements, wide-scattered o'er the 

globe. 
To happier shapes are moulded, and be- 
come 
Ministrant to all blissful impulses : 
Thus human things are perfected, and 

earth. 
Even as a child beneath its mother's 

love, 
Is strengthened in all excellence, and 

grows 
Fairer and nobler with each passing 

year. 

" Now Time his dusky pennons o'er 

the scene 
Closes in steadfast darkness, and the 

past 
Fades from our charmed sight. My 

task is done : 
Thy lore is learned. Earth's wonders 

are thine own. 
With all the fear and all the hope they 

bring. 
My spells are past : the present now 

recurs. 
Ah me ! a pathless wilderness remains 
Yet unsubdued by man's reclaiming 

hand. 

"Yet, human Spirit, bravely hold 

thy course, 
Let virtue teach thee firmly to pursue 
The gradual paths of an aspiring 

change : 
For birth and life and death, and that 

strange state 
Before the naked powers that thro' the 

world 
Wander like winds, have found a 

human home, 



All tend to perfect happiness, and 

urge 
The restless wheels of being on theii* 

wav, 
Whose flashing spokes, instinct with 

infinite life. 
Bicker and burn to gain their destined 

goal : 
For birth but wakes the universal 

mind 
Whose mighty streams might else in 

silence now 
Thro' the vast world, to. individual 

sense 
Of outward shows, whose unex- 
perienced shape 
New modes of passion to its frame may 

lend ; 
Life is its state of action, and the store 
Of all events is aggregated there 
That variegate the eternal universe ; 
Death is a gate of dreariness and 

gloom, 
That leads to azure isles and beaming 

skies 
And happy regions of eternal hope. 
Therefore, O Spirit ! fearlessly bear 

on : 
Though storms may break the primrose 

on its stalk. 
Though frosts may blight the freshness 

of its bloom. 
Yet spring's awakening breath will 

woo the earth, 
To feed with kindliest dews its favorite 

flower, 
That blooms in mossy banks and dark- 
some glens, 
Lightning the green wood with its 

sunny smile. 



" Fear not then, Spirit, death's dis- 
robing hand. 
So welcome when the tyrant is awake, 
So welcome when the bigot's hell-torch 

flares ; 
'T is but the voyage of a darksome 

hour, 
The transient gulf-dream of a startling 

sleep. 
For what thou art shall perish utterly. 
But what is thine may never cease to 

be; 
Death is no foe to virtue : earth has 

seen 
Love's brightest roses on the scaffold 

bloom, 
Mingling with freedom's fadeless 

laurels there, 
And presaging the truth of vlsioned 

bliss. 



40 



ALASTOR : OR 



Are there not hopes within thee, which 

this scene 
Of linked and gradual being has con- 
firmed 'i 
Hopes that not vainly thou, and living 

fires 
Of mind, as radiant and as pure as thou 
Have shone upon the paths of men — 

return, 
Surpassing Spirit, to that world, where 

thou 
Art destined an eternal war to wage 
With tyranny and falsehood, and up- 
root 
The germs of misery from the human 

heart. 
Thine is the hand whose piety would 

soothe 
The thorny pillow of unhappy crime. 
Whose impotence an easy pardon 

gains. 
Watching its wanderings as a friend's 

disease : 
Thine is the brow whose mildness 

would defy 
Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest 

will. 
When fenced by power and master of 

the world. 
Thou art sincere and good ; of resolute 

mind, 
Free from heart-withering custom's 

cold control. 
Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued. 
Earth's pride and meanness could not 

vanquish thee. 
And therefore art thou worthy of the 

boon 
Which thou hast now received : virtue 

shall keep 
Thy footsteps in the path that thou 

hast trod, 
And many days of beaming hope shall 

bless 
Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred 

love. 
Go, happy one, and give that bosom joy 
Whose sleepless spirit waits to 

catch 
Light, life and rapture from thy 

smile." 



The Dsemon called its winged minis- 
ters. 
Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts 

the car, 
That rolled beside the crystal battle- 
ment. 
Bending her beamy eyes in thankful- 
ness. 
The burning wheels inflame 



The steep descent of Heaven's untrod- 
den way. 
Fast and far the chariot flew : 
The mighty globes that rolled 
Around the gate of the Eternal Fane 
Lessened by slow degrees, and soon 

appeared 
Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs 
That ministering on the solar power 
With borrowed light pursued their 
narrower way. 
Earth floated then below : 
The chariot paused a moment ; 
The Spirit then descended : 
And from the earth departing 
The shadows with swift wings 
Speeded like thought upon the light of 
Heaven. 

The Body and the Soul united then, 
A gentle start convulsed lanthe's 

frame : 
Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed ; 
Moveless awhile the dark bhie orbs re- 
mained : 
She looked around in wonder and be- 
held 
Henry, who kneeled in silence by her 

couch, 
Watching her sleep with looks of 
speechless love. 
And the bright beaming stars 
That through the casement shone. 



ALASTOR ; 

OR 

THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 

PREFACE. 

The poem entitled Alastor may be 
considered as allegorical of one of the 
most interesting situations of the hu- 
man mind. It represents a youth of 
uncorrupted feelings and adventurous 
genius led forth by an imagination in- 
flamed and purifled through familiar- 
ity with all that is excellent and ma- 
jestic, to the contemplation of the 
universe. He drinks deep of the foun- 
tains of knowledge, and is still insati- 
ate. The magniflcence and beauty of 
the external world sinks profoundly 
into the fi-ame of his conceptions, and 
affords to their modittcations a variety 
not to be exhausted. So long as it is 
possible for his desires to point towai'ds 
objects thus infinite and unmeasured, 
he is joyous, and tranquil, and self- 
possessed. But the period arrives 



THE SPiniT OF SOLITUDE. 



41 



when these objects cease to siitRce. 
His mind is at length suddenly awak- 
ened and thirsts for intercourse with 
an intelligence similar to itself. He 
Images to himself the Being whom he 
loves. Conversant with speculations 
of the sublinu'st and most perfect na- 
tures, the vision in which he embodies 
his own imaginations imites all of w^on- 
derful, or wise, or beautiful, which the 
poet, the philosopher, or the lover 
could depicture. The intellectual 
faculties, the imagination, the func- 
tions of sense, have their respective re- 
quisitions on the sympathy of corres- 
ponding powers in other human beings. 
The Poet is represented as uniting 
these requisitions, and attaching them 
to a single image." He seeks in vain for 
a prototype of his conception. Blasted 
by his disappointment, he descends to 
an untimely grave. 

The picture is not barren of instruc- 
tion to actual men. The Poet's self- 
centred seclusion was avenged by the 
furies of an irresistible passion pursu- 
ing him to speedy ruin. But that 
Power which strikes the luminaries of 
the world with sudden darkness and 
extinction, by awakening them to too 
exquisite a perception of its influences, 
dooms to a slow and poisonous decay 
those meaner spirits that dare to ab- 
jure its dominion. Their destiny is 
more abject and inglorious as their 
delinquency is more contemptible and 
pernicious. They who, deluded by no 
generous error, instigated by no sacred 
thirst of doubtful knowledge, duped by 
no illustrious superstition, loving noth- 
ing on this earth, and cherishing no 
hopes beyond, yet keep aloof from 
sympathies with their kind, rejoicing 
meither in human joy nor mourning 
with human grief ; these, and such as 
they, have their apportioned curse. 
;They languish, because none feel with 
them their common nature. They are 
morally dead. They are neither 
jfriends, nor lovers, nor fathers, nor 
IMtizens of the world, nor benefactors 
:)f their country. Among those who 
littemptto exist without human sym- 
pathy, the pure and tender-hearted 
perish through the intensity and pas- 
liion of their search after its communi- 
iies, when the vacancy of their spirit 
•uddenly makes itself felt. All else, 
lelftsh, blind, and torpid, are those un- 
'oreseeing multitudes who constitute, 
ogether with their own, the lasting 
nisery and loneliness of the world 



Those who love not their fellow-beings 
live unfruitful lives, and prepare for 
their old age a miserable grave. 

"The pood die fir.st, 
And those whose hearts are dry as summer 

dust, 
Burn to the socket ! " 
December 14, 1815. 



Earth, ocean, air, beloved brother- 
hood ! 
If our great Mother has imbued my 

soul 
With aught of natural piety to feel 
Your love, and recompense the boon 

with mine ; 
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and 

even. 
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers. 
And solemn midnight's tingling silent- 

ness ; 
If autumn's hollow sighs in the sere 

wood, 
And winter robing with pure snow and 

crowns 
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare 

boughs ; 
If spring's voluptuous pantings when 

she breathes 
Her first sweet kisses, have been dear 

to me ; 
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 
I consciously have injured, but still 

loved 
And cherished these my kindred ; then 

forgive 
This boast, beloved brethren, and with- 
draw 
No portion of your wonted favor now ! 

Mother of this unfathomable world ! 
Favor my solemn song, for I have 

loved 
Thee ever, and thee only ; I have 

watched 
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy 

steps. 
And my heart ever gazes on the depth 
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made 

my bed 
In charnels and on coffins, where black 

death 
Keeps record of the trophies won from 

thee. 
Hoping to still these obstinate ques- 
tionings 
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone 

ghost. 
Thy messenger, to render up the tale 
Of what we are. In lone and silent 

hours, 



42 



ALASTOR; OR 



When night makes a weii'd sound of 

its own stillness, 
Like an inspired and desperate alche- 
mist 
Staking his very life on some dark hope, 
Have I mixed awful talk and asking 

looks 
With my most innocent love, until 

strange tears 
Uniting with those breathless kisses, 

made 
Such magic as compels the charmed 

night 
To render up thy charge : and, tho' 

ne'er yet 
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanc- 
tuary, 
Enough from incommunicable dream. 
And twilight phantasms, and deep 

noon-day thought. 
Has shone within me, that serenely 

now 
And moveless, as a long- forgotten lyre 
Suspended in the solitary dome 
Of some mysterious and deserted fane, 
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that 

my strain 
May modulate with murmurs of the 

air, 
And motions of the forests and the sea 
And voice of living beings, and woven 

hymns 
Of night and day, and the deep heart 

of man. 

There was a Poet whose untimely 
tomb 

No human hands with pious reverence 
reared. 

But the charmed eddies of autumnal 
winds 

Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyra- 
mid 

Of mouldering leaves in the waste 
wilderness : — 

A lovely youth,— no mourning maiden 
decked 

With weeping flowers, or votive cy- 
press wreath. 

The lone couch of his everlasting 
sleep :— 

Gentle, and brave, and generous, — no 
lorn bard 

Breathed o'er his dark fate one melo- 
dious sigh : 

He lived, he died, he sung, in solitude. 

Strangers have wept to hear his pas- 
sionate notes. 

And virgins, as unknown he passed, 
have pined 

And wasted for fond love of his wild 
eyes. 



The fire of those soft orbs has ceased 

to burn, 
And Silence, too enamored of that 

voice. 
Locks its mute music in her rugged 

cell. 

By solemn vision, and bright silver 

dream. 
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight 
And sound from the vast earth and 

ambient air 
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. 
The fountains of divine philosophy 
Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of 

great, 
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred 

past 
In truth or fable consecrates, he felt 
And knew. When early youth had 

passed, he left 
His cold fireside and alienated home 
To seek strange truths in undiscovered 

lands. 
Many a wide waste and tangled wilder- 1 

ness I 

Has lured his fearless steps ; and he 

has bought 
With his sweet voice and eyes, from 

savage men, 
His rest and food. Nature's most 

secret steps 
He like her shadow has pursued, 

where'er 
The red volcano overcanopies 
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice 
With burning smoke, or where bitu- 
men lakes 
On black bare pointed islets ever beat 
With sluggish surge, or where the 

secret caves 
Rugged and dark, winding among the 

springs 
'Of fire and poison, inaccessible 
To avarice or pride, their starry domes 
Of diamond and of gold expand above 
Numberless and immeasurable halls. 
Frequent with crystal column, and 

clear shrines 
Of pearl and thrones radiant with 

chrysolite. 
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty 
Than gems or gold, the varying roof of 

heaven 
And the green earth lost in his heart 

its claims 
To love and wonder ; he would linger 

long 
In lonesome vales, making the wild his 

home. 
Until the doves and squirrels wouldi 

partake 



THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



43 



From his innocuous hand his bloodless 

food, 
Lured by the gentle meaning of his 

looks, 
And the wild antelope, that starts 

whene'er 
The dry leaf rustles in the brake, sus- 
pend 
Her timid steps to gaze upon a form 
More graceful than her own. 

His wandering step 
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited 
The awful ruins of the days of old : 
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the 

waste 
Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen 

towers 
Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, 
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er 

of strange, 
Sculptured on alabaster obelisk. 
Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphinx. 
Dark -Ethiopia in her desert hills 
Conceals. Among the ruined temples 

there. 
Stupendous columns, and wild images 
Of more than man, where marble 

daemons watch 
The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead 

men 
Hang their mute thoughts on the muto 

walls around. 
He lingered, poring on memorials 
Of the world's youth ; through the 

long burning day 
Gazed on those speechless shapes ; 

nor, when the moon 
Filled the mysterious halls with float- 
ing shades 
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed 
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant 

mind 
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he 

saw 
The thrilling secrets of the birth of 

time. 



Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought 

his food. 
Her daily portion, from her father's 

tent. 
And spread her matting for his couch, 

and stole 
From duties and repose to tend his 

steps :— 
Enamored, yet not daring for deep awe 
To speak her love :— and watched his 

nightly sleep, 
Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips 
Farted in slumber, whence the regular 

breath 



Of innocent dreams arose : then, when 

red morn 
Made paler the pale moon, to her cold 

home 
Wildered and wan and panting, she 

returned. 



The poet wandering on, through 

Arabia 
And Persia, and the wild Carmanian 

waste. 
And o'er the aerial mountains which 

pour down 
Indus and Oxus from their icy caves. 
In joy and exultation held his way ; 
Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within 
Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants 

entwine 
Beneath the hollow rocks a natural 

bower. 
Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched 
His languid limbs. A vision on his 

sleep 
There came, a dream of hopes that 

never yet 
Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a 

veiled maid 
Sate near him, talking in low solemn 

tones. 
Her voice was like the voice of his own 

soul 
Heard in the calm of thought ; its 

music long, 
Like woven sounds of streams and 

breezes, held 
His inmost sense suspended in its web 
Of many-colored woof and shifting 

hues. 
Knowledge and truth and virtue were 

her theme. 
And lofty hopes of divine liberty. 
Thoughts the most dear to him, and 

poesy. 
Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood 
Of her pure mind kindled through all 

her frame 
A permeating fire ; wild numbers then 
She raised, with voice stifled in tremu- 
lous .sobs 
Subdued by its own pathos : her fair 

hands 
Were bare alone, sweeping from .some 

strange harp 
Strange symphony, and in their branch- 
ing veins 
The eloquent blood told an ineffable 

tale. 
The beating of her heart was lieard to 

fill 
The pauses of her music, and her 

breath 



44 



ALASTOR ; OR 



Tumultuously accorded with those fits 
Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose, 
As if her heart impatiently endured 
Its bursting burden : at the sound he 

turned, 
And saw by the warm light of their 

own life 
Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous 

veil 
Of woven wind, her outspread arms 

now bare, 
Her dark locks floating in the breath of 

night, 
Her beamy bending eyes, her parted 

lips 
Outstretched and pale, and quivering 

eagerly. 
His strong heart sunk and sickened 

with excess 
Of love. He reared his shuddering 

limbs and quelled 
His gasping breath, and spread his 

arms to meet 
Her panting bosom : . . . she drew 

back awhile. 
Then, yielding to the irresistible joy. 
With frantic gesture and short breath- 
less cry 
Folded his frame in her dissolving 

arms. 
Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, 

and night 
Involved and swallowed up the vision ; 

Like a dark flood suspended in its 

course, 
Rolled back its impulse on his vacant 

brain. 

Roused by the shock he started from 

his trance — 
The cold white light of morning, the 

blue moon 
Low in the west, the clear and garish 

hills. 
The distinct valley and the vacant 

woods. 
Spread round him where he stood. 

Whither have fled 
The hues of heaven that canopied his 

bower 
Of yesternight? The sounds that 

soothed his sleep. 
The mystery and the majesty of Earth. 
The joy, the exultation ? His wan eyes 
Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly 
As ocean's moon looks on the moon in 

heaven. 
The spirit of sweet human love has 

sent 
A vision to the sleep of him who 

spurned 



Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pur- 
sues 
Beyond the realms of dream that fleet- 
ing shade ; 
He overleaps the bounds. Alas ! alas ! 
Were limbs, and breath, and being in- 
tertwined 
Thus treacherously ? Lost, lost, for- 
ever lost. 
In the wide pathless desert of dim 

sleep. 
That beautiful shape ! Does the dark 

gate of death 
Conduct to thy mysterious paradise, 
O sleep ? Does the bright arch of rain- 
bow clouds. 
And pendent mountains seen in the 

calm lake. 
Lead only to a black and watery depth. 
While death's blue vault, with loath- 

liest vapors hung. 
Where every shade which the foul 

grave exhales 
Hides its dead eye from the detested 

day. 
Conducts, O Sleep, to thy delightful 

realms ? 
This doubt with sudden tide flowed on 

his heart ; 
The insatiate hope which it awakened 

stung 
His brain even like despair. 

While daylight held 
The sky, the Poet kept mute conference 
With his still soul. At night the pas- 
sion came, 
Like the fierce fiend of a distempered 

dream. 
And shook him from his rest, and led 

him forth 
Into the darkness.— As an eagle, 

grasped 
In folds of the green serpent, feels her 

breast 
Burn with the poison, and precipitates 
Through night and day, tempest and 

calm and cloud. 
Frantic with dizzying anguish, her 

blind flight 
O'er the wide aery wilderness : thus 

driven 
By the bright shadow of that lovely 

dream, 
Beneath the cold glare of the desolate 

night. 
Through tangled swamps and deej 

precipitous dells, ' 

Startling with careless step the moon 

light snake. 
He fled. Red morning dawned upoi 

his flight. 
Shedding the mockery of its vital hues 



THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



45 



Upon his cheek of death. He wandered 
on 

Till vast Aornos seen from Petra's steep 

Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud ; 

Through Balk, and where the desolated 
tombs 

Of Parthian kings scatter to every 
wind 

Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered 
on, 

Day after day, a weary waste of hours, 

Bearing within his life the brooding 
care 

That ever fed on its decaying flame. 

And now his limbs were lean ; his scat- 
tered hair 

Sered by the autumn of strange suffer- 
ing 

Sung dirges in the wind ; his listless 
hand 

Hung iike dead bone within its 
withered skin ; 

Life, and the lustre that consumed it, 
shone 

As in a furnace burning secretly 

From his dark eyes alone. The cot- 
tagers, 

Who minstered with human charity 

His human wants, beheld with wonder- 
ing awe 

Their fleeting visitant. The moun- 
taineer. 

Encountering on some dizzy precipice 

That spectral form, deemed that the 
Spirit of wind 

With lightning eyes, and eager breath, 
and feet 

Disturbing not the drifted snow, had 
paused 

In its career : the infant would conceal 

His troubled visage in his mother's robe 

In terror at the glare of those wild 
eyes, 

To remember their strange light in 
many a dream 

Of after-times ; but youthful maidens, 
taught 

By nature, would interpret half the 
woe 

That wasted him, would call him with 
false names 

Brother and friend, would press his pal- 
lid hand 

At parting, and watch, dim through 
tears, the path 

Of his departure from their father's 
door. 

At length upon the lone Chorasmian 
shore 
He paused, a wide and melancholy 
waste 



Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse 

urged 
His steps to the sea-shore. A swan 

was there. 
Beside a sluggish stream among the 

reeds. 
It rose as he approached, and with 

strong wings 
Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright 

course 
High over the immeasurable main. 
His eyes pursued its flight,— "Thou 

hast a home, 
Beautiful bird ; thou voyagest to thine 

home. 
Where thy sweet mate will twine her 

downy neck 
With thine, and welcome thy return 

with eyes 
Bright in the lustre of their own fond 

joy. 
And what am I that I should linger 

here. 
With voice far sweeter than thy dying 

notes. 
Spirit more vast than thine, frame 

more attuned 
To beautJ^ wasting these surpassing 

powers 
In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and 

heaven 
That echoes not my thoughts ? " A 

gloomy smile 
Of despei'ate hope wrinkled his quiver- 
ing lips. 
For sleep, he knew, kept most relent- 
lessly 
Its precious charge, and silent death 

exposed, 
Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy 

lure, 
With doubtful smile mocking its own 

strange charms. 

Startled by his own thoughts he 

looked around. 
There was no fair fiend near him, not 

a sight 
Or sound of awe but in his own deep 

mind. 
A little shallop floating near the shore 
Caught the impatient wandering of 

his gaze. 
It had been long abandoned, for its 

sides 
Gaped wide with many a rift, and its 

frail joints 
Swayed with the undulations of the 

tide. 
A restless impulse urged him to embark 
And meet lone Death on the drear 

ocean's waste ; 



46 



alastor; or 



For well he knew that mighty Shadow 

loves 
The slimy caverns of the populous deep. 

The day was fair and sunny ; sea and 
sky 

Drank its inspiring radiance, and the 
wind 

Swept strongly from the shore, blacken- 
ing the waves. 

Following his eager soul, the wanderer 

Leaped in the boat ; he spread his cloak 
aloft 

On the bare mast, and took his lonely 
seat, 

And felt the boat speed o'er the tran- 
quil sea 

Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. 

As one that in a silver vision floats 
Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds 
Upon resplendent cloud.s, so rapidly 
Along the dark and ruffled waters fled 
The straining boat. A whirlwind 

swept it on. 
With fierce gusts and precipitating 

force. 
Through the white ridges of the 

chafed sea. 
The waves arose. Higher and higher 

still 
Their fierce necks writhed beneath the 

tempest's scourge 
Like serpents struggling in a vulture's 

grasp. 
Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war 
Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on 

blast 
Descending, and black flood on whirl- 
pool driven 
With dark obliterating course, he sate : 
As if their genii were the ministers 
Appointed to conduct him to the light 
Of those beloved eyes, the Poet sate 
Holding the steady helm. Evening 

came on, 
The beams of sunset hung their rain- 
bow hues 
High 'mid the shifting domes of 

sheeted spray 
That canopied his path o'er the waste 

deep ; 
Twilight, ascending slowly from the 

east. 
Entwined in duskier wreaths her 

braided locks 
O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of 

dav ; 
Night followed, clad with stars. On 

every side 
More hurriedly the multitudinous 

streams 



Of ocean's mountainous waste of mu- 
tual war 
Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as 

to mock 
The calm and spangled sky. The little 

boat 
Still fled before the storm ; still fled, 

like foam 
Down the deep cataract of a winti-y 

river ; 
Now pausing on the edge of the riven 

wave ; 
Now leaving far behind the bursting 

mass 
That fell, convulsing ocean ; safely 

fled— 
As if that frail and wasted human 

form, 
Had been an elemental god. 

At midnight 
The moon arose : and lo ! the ethereal 

cliffs 
Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone 
Among the stars like sunlight, and 

around 
Whose caverned base the whirlpools 

and the waves 
Bursting and eddying irresistibly 
Rage and resound forever. — Who shall 

save ?— 
The boat fled on,— the boiling torrent 

drove, — 
The crags closed round witii black and 

jagged arms. 
The shattered mountain overhung the 

sea. 
And faster still, beyond all human 

speed. 
Suspended on the sweep of the smooth 

wave. 
The little boat was driven. A cavern 

there 
Yawned, and amid its slant and wind- 
ing depths 
Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat 

fled on 
With unrelaxing speed.— "Vision and 

Love ! " 
The Poet cried aloud, " I have beheld 
The path of thy departure. Sleep and 

death 
Shall not divide us long. 

The boat pursued 
The windings of the cavern. Daylight 

shone 
At length upon that gloomy river's 

flow ; 
Now, where the fiercest war among 

the waves 
Is calm, on the unfathomable stream 



THE SPIRIT OP SOLITUDE. 



47 



I 



The boat moved slowly. Where the 

mountain, riven, 
Exposed those black depths to the 

azure sky, 
Ere yet the flood's enormous volume 

fell 
Even to the base of Caucasus, with 

sound 
That shook the everlasting rocks, the 

mass 
Filled with one whirlpool all that ample 

chasm ; 
Stair above stair the eddying waters 

rose. 
Circling immeasurably fast, and laved 
With alternating dash the gnarled 

roots 
Of mighty trees, that stretched their 

giant arms 
In darkness over it. I' the midst was 

left. 
Reflecting, yet distorting every cloud, 
A pool of treacherous and tremendous 

calm. 
Seized by the sway of the ascending 

stream. 
With dizzy swiftness, round and round 

and round. 
Ridge after ridge the straining boat 

arose. 
Till on the verge of the extremest 

curve. 
Where, through an opening of the 

rocky bank. 
The waters overflow, and a smooth 

spot 
Of glassy quiet mid those battling 

tides 
Is left, the boat paused shuddering. — 

Shall it sink 
Down the abyss ! Shall the reverting 

stress 
Of that resistless gulf embosom it ? 
Now shall it fall ?— A wandering 

stream of wind. 
Breathed from the west, has caught 

the expanded sail. 
And, lo ! with gentle motion, between 

banks 
Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream, 
Beneath a woven grove it sails, and, 

hark ! 
The ghastly torrent mingles its far 

roar, 
With the breeze murmuring in the 

musical woods. 
Where the embowering trees recede, 

and leave 
A little space of green expanse, the 

cove 
Is closed by meeting banks, whose yel- 
low flowers 



Forever gaze on their own drooping 
eyes, 

Reflected in the crystal calm. The 
wave 

Of the boat's motion marred their pen- 
sive task. 

Which naught but vagrant bird, or 
wanton wind. 

Or falling spear-grass, or their own 
decay 

Had e'er disturbed before. The Poet 
longed 

To deck with their bi-ight hues his 
withered hair, 

But on his heart its solitude returned, 

And he forbore. Not the strong im- 
pulse hid 

In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and 
shadowy frame 

Had yet performed its ministry : it 
hung 

Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud 

Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the 
floods 

Of night close over it. 

The noonday sun 

Now shone upon the forest, one vast 
mass 

Of mingling shade, who.se brown mag- 
nificence 

A narrow vale embosoms. There, 
huge caves. 

Scooped in the dark base of their aery 
rocks 

Mocking its moans, respond and roar 
forever. 

The meeting boughs and implicated 
leaves 

Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as, 
led 

By love, or dream, or God, or mightier 
Death, 

He sought in Nature's dearest haunt, 
some bank. 

Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More 
dark 

And dark the shades accumulate. The 
oak, 

Expanding its immense and knotty 
arms, 

Embraces the light beech. The pyra- 
mids 

Of the tall cedar overarching frame 

Most solemn domes within, and far be- 
low. 

Like clouds suspended in an emerald 
sky, 

The ash and the acacia floating 
hang 

Tremulous and pale. Like restless 
serpents, clothed 

In rainbow and in fire, the parasites. 



48 



ALASTOR ; OR 



Starred with ten thousand blossoms, 

flow around 
The gray trunks, and, as gamesome 

infant's eyes, 
With gentle meanings, and most inno- 
cent wiles, 
Fold their beams round the hearts of 

those that love, 
These twine their tendrils with the 

wedded boughs. 
Uniting their close union ; the woven 

leaves 
Make network of the dark blue light 

of day. 
And the night's noontide clearness, 

mutable 
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft 

mossy lawns 
Beneath these canopies extend their 

swells, 
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and 

eyed with blooms 
Minute yet beautiful. One darkest 

glen 
Sends from its woods of musk-rose, 

twined with jasmine, 
A soul-dissolving odor, to invite 
To some more lovely mystery. 

Through the dell. 
Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, 

keep 
Their noonday watch, and sail among 

the shades, 
Like vaporous shapes half seen ; be- 
yond, a well. 
Dark, gleaming, and of most translu- 
cent wave. 
Images all the woven boughs above. 
And each depending leaf, and every 

speck 
Of azure sky, darting between their 

chasms ; 
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror 

laves 
Its portraiture, but some inconstant 

star 
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling 

fair. 
Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the 

moon, 
Or gorgeous insect floating motionless, 
Unconscious of the day, ere yet his 

wings 
Have spread their glories to the gaze 

of noon. 

Hither the Poet came. His eyes be- 
held 

Their own wan light through the re- 
flected lines 

Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark 
depth 



Of that still fountain ; as the human 

heart. 
Gazing in dreams over the gloomy 

grave, 
Sees its own treacherous likeness there. 

He heard 
The motion of the leaves, the grass 

that sprung 
Startled and glanced and trembled 

even to feel 
An unaccustomed presence, and the 

sound 
Of the sweet brook that from the 

secret springs 
Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit 

seemed 
To stand beside him — clothed in no 

bright robes 
Of shadowy silver or enshrining light, 
Borrowed from aught the visible 

world affords 
Of grace, or majesty, or mystery ;— 
But undulating woods, and silent well, 
And leaping rivulet, and evening 

gloom 
Now deepening the dark shades, for 

speech assuming. 
Held commune with him, as if he and 

it 
Were all that was,— only . . . when 

his regard 
Was raised by intense pensiveness, 

. . . two eyes, 
Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of 'i 

thought. 
And seemed with their serene and 

azure smiles 
To beckon him. 



Obedient to the light 
That shone within his soul, he went, 

pursuing 
The windings of the dell. The rivulet 
Wanton and wild, through many a 

green ravine 
Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes 

it fell 
Among the moss with hollow harmony 
Dark and profound. Now on the pol- 
ished stones 
It danced, like childhood laugliing as it 

went : 
Then through the plain in tranquil 

wanderings crept, 
Reflecting every herb and drooping 

bud 
That overhung its quietness.— " O 

stream ! 
Whose source is inaccessibly profound. 
Whither do thy mysterious waters 

tend ? 



THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



49 



Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome 

stillness, 
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hol- 
low gulfs. 
Thy searchless fountain, and invisible 

course 
Have each their type in me : and the 

wide sky, 
And measureless ocean may declare as 

soon 
What oozy cavern or what wandering 

cloud 
Contains thy waters, as the universe 
Tell where these living thoughts re- 
side, when stretched 
Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs 

shall waste 
r the passing wind ! " 

Beside the grassy shore 
Of the small stream he went ; he did 

impress 
On the green moss his tremulous step, 

that caught 
Strong shuddering from his burning 

limbs. As one 
Roused by some joyous madness from 

the couch 
Of fever, he did move ; yet not like 

him 
Forgetful of the grave, where, when 

the flame 
Of his frail exultation shall be spent, 
He must descend. With rapid steps he 
I went 

1 Beneath the shade of trees, beside the 
, flow 

Of the wild babbling rivulet ; and 

now 
The forest's solemn canopies were 

changed 
For the uniform and lightsome evening 

sky. 
Gray rocks did peep from the spare 

moss, and stemmed 
The struggling brook : tall spires of 

windlestrae 
Threw their thin shadows down the 

rugged slope. 
And naught but gnarled roots of an- 
cient pines 
Branchless and blasted, clenched with 

grasping roots 
The unwilling soil. A gradual change 

was here, 
Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow 

away, away, 
The smooth brow gathers, and the hair 

grows thin 
And white, and where irradiate dewy 

eyes 
Had shone, gleam stony orbs : — so 

from his steps 



Bright flowers departed, and the beau- 
tiful shade 
Of the green groves, with all their 

odorous winds 
And musical motions. Calm, he still 

pursued 
The stream, that with a larger volume 

now 
Rolled through the labyrinthine dell ; 

and there 
Fretted a path through its descending 

curves, 
With its wintry speed. On every side 

now rose 
Rocks, which in unimaginable forms. 
Lifted their black and barren pinnacles 
In the light of evening, and, its preci- 
pice 
Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above. 
Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and 

yawning caves, 
Whose windings gave ten thousand 

various tongues 
To the loud stream. Lo ! where the 

pass expands 
Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain 

breaks. 
And seems, with its accumulated 

crags, 
To overhang the world : for wide ex- 
pand 
Beneath the wan stars and descending 

moon 
Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty 

streams. 
Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lus- 
trous gloom 
Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills 
Mingling their flames with twilight, on 

the verge 
Of the remote horizon. The near 

scene. 
In naked and severe simplicity, 
Made contrast with the universe. A 

pine, 
Rock- rooted, stretched athwart the 

vacancy 
Its swinging boughs, to each incon- 
stant blast 
Yielding one only response, at each 

pause 
In most familiar cadence, with the 

howl. 
The thunder and the hiss of homeless 

streams 
Mingling its solemn .song, whilst the 

broad river. 
Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged 

path, 
Fell into that immeasurable void 
Scattering its waters to the passing 

winds. 



50 



ALASTOR ; OR 



Yet the gray precipice and solemn 

pine 
And torrent were not all ; —one silent 

nook 
"Was there. Even on the edge of that 

vast mountain, 
Upheld by knotty roots and fallen 

rocks, 
It overlooked in its serenity 
The dark earth, and the bending vault 

of stars. 
It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to 

smile 
Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped 
The fissured stones with its entwining 

arms, 
And did embower with leaves forever 

green, 
And berries dark, the smooth and even 

space 
Of its inviolated floor ; and here 
The children of the autumnal whirl- 
wind bore, 
In wanton sport, those bright leaves, 

whose decay, 
Red, yellow, or ethereally pale 
Rivals the pride of summer. 'T is the 

haunt 
Of every gentle wind, whose breath 

can teach 
The wilds to love tranquillity. One 

step, 
One human step alone, has ever broken 
The stillness of its solitude ;— one voice 
Alone inspired its echoes ;— even that 

voice 
Which hither came, floating among the 

winds, 
And led the loveliest among human 

forms 
To make their wild haunts the deposi- 
tory 
Of all the grace and beauty that endued 
Its motions, render up its majesty. 
Scatter its music on the imfeeling 

storm, 
And to the damp leaves and blue cavern 

mould. 
Nurses of rainbow flowers and branch- 
ing moss. 
Commit the colors of that varying 

cheek, 
That snowy breast, those dark and 

drooping eyes. 

The dim and horned moon hung low, 
and poured 

A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge. 

That overflowed its mountains. Yel- 
low mist 

Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and 
drank 



Wan moonlight even to fulness : not a 
star 

Shone, not a sound was heard ; the 
very winds. 

Danger's grim playmates, on that prec- 
ipice 

Slept, clasped in his embrace. — O, 
storm of death ! 

Whose sightless speed divides this 
sullen night : 

And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still 

Guiding its irresistible career 

In thy devastating omnipotence, 

Art king of this frail world ! from the 
red field 

Of slaughter, from the reeking hospi- 
tal. 

The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy 
bed 

Of innocence, the scaffold and the 
throne, 

A mighty voice invokes thee. Ruin 
calls 

His brother Death. A rare and regal 
prey 

He hath prepared, prowling around 
the world ; 

Glutted with which thou mayst repose, 
and men 

Go to their graves like flowers or creep- 
ing worms. 

Nor ever more ofi'er at thy dark shrine 

The iinheeded tribute of a broken 
heart. 

When on the thre.shold of the green 

recess 
The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew 

that death 
Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled. 
Did he resign his high and holy soul 
To images of the majestic past. 
That paused within his passive being 

now, 
Like winds that bear sweet music, 

when they breathe 
Through some dim latticed chamber. 

He did place 
His pale lean hand upon the rugged 

trunk 
Of the old pine. Upon an ivied stone 
Reclined his languid head, his limbs 

did rest. 
Diffused and motionless, on the smooth 

brink ^ 

Of that obscurest chasm ; — and thus he 

lay. 
Surrendering to their final impulses 
The hovering powers of life. Hope 

and Despair, 
The torturers, slept ; no mortal pain or 

fear 



THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



51 



Marred his repose, the influxes of 

sense, 
And his own being, unalloyed hy pain, 
Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly 

fed 
The stream of thought, till he lay 

breathing thei-e 
At peace, and faintly smiling. His 

last sight 
Was the great moon, which o'er the 

western line 
Of the wide world her mighty horn 

suspended, 
With whose dun beams inwoven dark- 
ness seemed 
To mingle : Now upon the jagged hills 
It rests, and still as the divided frame 
Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's 

blood, 
That ever beat in mystic sympathy 
With nature's ebb and flow, grew 

feebler still : 
And when two lessening points of light 

alone 
Gleamed through the darkness, the 

alternate gasp 
Of his faint respiration scarce did stir 
The stagnate night : — till the minutest 

ray 
Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered 

in his heart. 
It paused— it fluttered. But when 

heaven remained 
Utterly black, the murky shades in- 
volved 
An image, silent, cold, and motionless. 
As their own voiceless earth and 

vacant air. 
Even as a vapor fed with golden beams 
That ministered on sunlight, ere the 

west 
Eclipses it, was now that wondrous 

frame — 
No sense, no motion, no divinity — 
A fragile lute, on whose harmonious 

strings 
The breath of heaven did wander — a 

bright stream 
Once fed with many-voiced waves — a 

dream 
Of youth, which night and time have 

quenched forever. 
Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered 

now. 

O, for Medea's wondrous alchemy. 
Which wheresoe'er it fell made the 

earth gleam 
AVith bright flowers, and the wintry 

boughs exhale 
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! 

O, that God, 



Profuse of poisons, would concede the 
chalice 

Which but one living man has drained, 
who now, 

Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that 
feels 

No proud exemption in the blighting 
curse 

He bears, over the world wanders for- 
ever. 

Lone as incarnate death ! O, that the 
dream 

Of dark magician in his visioned cave. 

Raking the cinders of a crucible 

For life and power, even when his 
feeble hand 

Shakes in its last decay, were the true 
law 

Of this so lovely world ! But thou art 
fled 

Like some frail exhalation, which the 
dawn 

Robes in its golden beams, — ah ! thou 
hast fled ! 

The brave, the gentle, and the beauti- 
ful. 

The child of grace and genius. Heart- 
less things 

Are done and said i' the world, and 
many worms 

And beasts and men live on, and 
mighty Earth 

From sea and mountain, city and wil- 
derness. 

In vesper low or joyous orison. 

Lifts still its solemn voice : — but thou 
art fled— 

Thou canst no longer know or love the 
shapes 

Of this phantasmal scene, who have to 
thee 

Been purest ministers, who are, alas ! 

Now thou art not. Upon those pallid 
lips 

So sweet even in their silence, on tho.se 
eyes 

That image sleep in death, upon that 
form 

Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let 
no tear 

Be shed— not even in thought. Nor 
when those hues 

Are gone, and those divinest linea- 
ments. 

Worn by the senseless wind, shall live 
alone 

In the frail pauses of this simple 
strain, 

Let not high verse, mourning the 
memory 

Of that which is no more, or painting's 
wo 



52 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery 
Their own cold powers. Art and elo- 
quence, 
And all the shows o' the world are frail 

and vain 
To weep a loss that turns their lights 

to shade. 
It is a wo too ' ' deep for tears, " when all 
Is reft at once, when some surpassing 

Spirit, 
Whose light adorned the world around 

it, leaves 
Those who remain behind, not sobs or 

groans, 
The passionate tumult of a clinging 

hope ; 
But pale despair and cold tranquillity. 
Nature's vast frame, the web of human 

things. 
Birth and the grave, that are not as 

they were. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 

A POEM IN TWELVE CANTOS. 

PREFACE. 

The poem which I now present to 
the world is an attempt from which I 
scarcely dare to expect success, and in 
which a writer of established fame 
might fail without disgrace. It is an 
experiment on the temper of the pub- 
lic mind, as to how far a thirst for a 
happier condition of moral and political 
society survives, among the enlight- 
ened and refined, the tempests which 
have shaken the age in which we live. 
I have sought to enlist the harmony 
of metrical language, the ethereal com- 
binations of the fancy, the rapid and 
subtle transitions of human passion, 
all those elements which essentially 
compose a Poem, in the cause of a 
liberal and comprehensive morality ; 
and in the view of kindling within the 
bosoms of my readers a virtuous en- 
thusiasm for those doctrines of liberty 
and justice, that faith and hope in 
something good, which neither violence 
nor misrepresentation nor prejudice 
can ever totally extinguish among 
mankind. 

For this purpose I have chosen a story 
of human passion in its most universal 
character, diversified with moving and 
romantic adventures, and appealing, 
in contempt of all artificial opinions 
or institutions, to the common sym- 
pathies of every human breast. I have 
made no attempt to recommend the 



motives which I would substitute for 
those at present governing mankind, 
by methodical and systematic argu- 
ment. I would only awaken the feel- 
ings, so that the reader should see the 
beauty of true virtue, and be incited 
to those inquiries which have led to 
my moral and political creed, and that 
of some of the sublimest intellects in 
the world. The Poem therefore (with 
the exception of the first canto, which 
is purely introductory) is narrative, 
not didactic. It is a succession of 
pictures illustrating the growth and 
progress of individual mind aspiring 
after excellence, and devoted to the 
love of mankind ; its influence in re- 
fining and making pure the most dar- 
ing and uncommon impulses of the 
imagination, the understanding, and 
the senses ; its impatience at "all the 
oppressions that are done under the 
sun ; " its tendency to awaken public 
hope, and to enlighten and improve 
mankind ; the rapid effects of the ap- 
plication of that tendency ; the awaken- 
ing of an immense nation from their 
slavery and degradation to a true 
sense of moral dignity and freedom ; 
the bloodless dethronement of their 
oppressors, and the unveiling of the 
religious frauds by which the}^ had 
been deluded into submission ; the 
tranquility of successful patriotism, 
and the universal toleration and be- 
nevolence of true philanthropy ; the 
treachery and barl :rity of hired sol- 
diers ; vice not th object of punish- 
ment and hatred, but kindness and 
pity ; the faithlessaess of tyrants ; the 
confederacy of the Rulers of the 
World, and the restoration of the ex- 
pelled Dynasty by foreign arms ; the 
massacre and extermination of the 
patriots, and the victory of established 
power ; the consequences of legiti- 
mate despotism, — civil war, famine, 
plague, superstition, and an utter ex- 
tinction of the domestic affections ; 
the judicial murder of the advocates 
of Liberty ; the temporary triumph of 
oppression, that secure earnest of its 
final and inevitable fall ; the transient 
nature of ignorance and error, and the 
eternity of genius and virtue. Such 
is the series of delineations of which 
the Poem consists. And, if the lofty 
passions with which it has been my 
scope to distinguish this story shall not 
excite in the reader a generous im- 
pulse, an ardent thirst for excellence, 
an interest profound and strong such 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



53 



as belongs to no meaner desires, let 
not the failure be imputed to a natural 
unfitness for human sympathy in these 
sublime and animating themes. It is 
the business of the Poet to communi- 
cate to others the pleasure and the 
enthusiasm arising out of those images 
and feelings in the vivid presence of 
which within his own mind consists at 
once his inspiration and his reward. 



DEDICATION. 

There is no danger to a man that knows 
What life and death is : there's not any 

law 
Exceeds his knowledge : neither is it 

lawful 
That he should stoop to any other law. 

Chapman. 



TO MARY 



So now my summer task is ended, 
Mary, 
And I return to thee, mine own 
heart's home ; 
As to his Queen some victor Knight 
of Faery, 
Earning bright spoils for her en- 
chanted dome ; 
Nor thou disdain that, ere my fame 
become 
A star among the stars of mortal 
night, 
If it indeed may cleave its natal 
gloom. 
Its doubtful promise thus I would 
unite 
With thy beloved name, thou Child of 
love and light. 



Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall 
I be seen : 
But beside thee, where still my heart 
has ever been. 



Thoughts of great deeds were mine, 
dear Friend, when fir.st 
The clouds which wrap this world 
from youth did pass. 
I do remember well the hour which 
burst 
My spirit's sleep : a fresh May- 
dawn it was. 
When I walked forth upon the glit- 
tering grass, 
And wept, I knew not why : until 
there rose 
From the near schoolroom voices 
that, alas ! 
Were but one echo from a world of 
woes — 
The harsh and grating strife of 
tyrants and of foes. 



And then I clasp my hands, and 
looked around. 
But none was near to mock my 
streaming eyes, 
Which poured their warm drops on 
the sunny ground- 
So, without shame, I spake: — ''I 

will be wise. 
And just, and free, and mild, if in 
me lies 
Such power, for I grow weary to be- 
hold 
The selfish and the strong still 
tyrannize 
Without reproach nor check." I then 
controlled 
My tears, my heart grew calm, and I 
was meek and bold. 



The toil which stole from thee so j 
many an hour | 

Is ended— and the fruit is at thy 
feet ! t 

No longer where the woods to frame 
a bower ' 

With interlaced branches mix and i 
meet, ' 

Or where, with sound like many 
voices sweet. 
Waterfalls leap among wild islands i 
green 
Which framed for my lone boat a 
lone retreat ' 



And from that hour did I with 
earnest thought 
Heap knowledge from forbidden 
mines of lore. 
Yet nothing that my tyrants knew 
or taught 
I cared to learn, but from that 

secret store 
Wrought linked armor for my soul, 
before 
It might walk forth to war among 
mankind ; 
Thus power and hope were 
strengthened more and more 



54 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM, 



Within me, till there came upon my 
mind 
A sense of loneliness, a thirst with 
which I pined. 



Alas that love should be a blight and 
snare 
To those who seek all sympathies 
in one ! — 
Such once I sought in vain ; then 
black despair, 
The shadow of a starless night, was 

thrown 
Over the snow in which I moved 
alone :— 
Yet never found I one not false to 
me, 
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights 
of icy stone 
Which crushed and withered mine, 
that could not be 
Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived 
by thee. 

VII. 

Thou Friend, whose presence on my 
wintry heart 
Fell, like bright Spring upon some 
herbless plain, 
How beautiful and calm and free 
thou wert 
In thy young wisdom, when the 

mortal chain 
Of Custom thou didst burst and 
rend in twain. 
And walk as free as light the clouds 
among, 
Which many an envious slave then 
breathed in vain 
From his dim dungeon, and my spirit 
sprung 
To meet thee from the woes which had 
begirt it long ! 



No more alone through the world's 
wilderness, 
Although I trod the paths of high 
intent, 
I journeyed now : no more compan- 
ionless, 
Where solitude is like despair, I 

went. — 
There is the wisdom of a stern con- 
tent 
When Poverty can blight the just 
and good, 
When Infamy dares mock the in- 
nocent, 



And cherished friends turn wiih the 
multitude 
To trample : this was ours, and we un- 
shaken stood ! 

IX. 

Now he descended a serener hour, 
And, with inconstant fortune, 
friends return ; 
Though suffering leaves the knowl- 
edge and the power 
Which says, " Let scorn be not re- 
paid with scorn." 
And from thy side two gentle 
babes are born 
To till our home with smiles, and 
thus are we 
Most fortunate beneath life's beam- 
ing morn : 
And these delights, and thou, have 
been to me 
The parents of the Song I consecrate 
to thee. 



Is it that now my inexperienced fin- 
gers 
But strike the prelude of a loftier 
strain ? 
Or must the lyre on which my spirit 
lingers 
Soon pause in silence, ne'er to 

sound again, 
Though it might shake the Anarch 
Custom's reign. 
And charm the minds of men to 
Truth's own sway. 
Holier than was Amphion's ? I 
would fain 
Reply in hope— but I am worn away, 
And Death and Love are yet contend- 
ing for their prey. 



And what art thou ? I know, but 
dare not speak : 
Time may interpret to his silent 
years. 
Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful 
cheek. 
And in the light thine ample fore- 
head wears. 
And in thy sweetest smiles, and in 
thy tears. 
And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy 
Is whispered, to subdue my fondest 
fears : 
And, through thine eyes, even in thy 

soul I SGG 

A lamp of vestal fire burning in- 
ternally. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



55 



They say that thou wert lovely from 
thy birth, 
Of glorious parents, thou aspiring 
Child. 
I wonder not— for One then left this 
earth 
Whose life was like a sotting planet 

mild, 
Which clothed thee in the radiance 
undefiled 
Of its departing glory ; still her fame 
Shines on thee, through the tem- 
pests dark and wild 
Which shake these latter days ; and 
thou canst claim 
The shelter, from thy Sire, of an im- 
mortal name. 



One voice came forth from many a 
mighty spirit 
Which was the echo of three-thou- 
sand years ; 
And the tumultuous world stood 
mute to hear it. 
As some lone man who in a desert 

hears 
The music of his home : — unwonted 
fears 
Fell on the pale oppressors of our 
race. 
And Faith and Custom and low- 
thoughted cares. 
Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a 
space 
Left the torn human heart, their food 
and dwelling-place. 



XIV. 

Truth's deathless voice pauses among 
mankind ! 
If there must be no response to my 
cry— 
If men must rise and stamp, with 
fury blind. 
On his pure name who loves them, 

— thou and I, 
Sweet friend ! can look from our 
tranquillity 
Like lamps into the world's tempes- 
tuous night,— 
Two tranquil stars, while clouds 
are passing by 
Which wrap them from the founder- 
ing seaman's sight. 
That burn from year to year with un- 
extinguished light. 



CANTO I. 



When the last hope of trampled 
France had failed 
Like a brief dream of unremaining 
glory. 
From visions of despair I rose, and 
scaled 
The peak of an aerial promontory. 
Whose caverned base with the vext 
surge was hoary ; 
And saw the golden dawn break forth, 
and waken 
Each cloud and every wave : — but 

transitory 
The calm : for sudden the firm earth 
was shaken, 
As if by the last wreck its frame were 
overtaken. 



So as I stood, one blast of muttering 
thunder 
Burst in far peals along the wave- 
less deep. 
When, gathering fast, around, 
above, and iinder, 
Long trains of tremulous mist be- 
gan to creep. 
Until their complicating lines did 
steep 
The orient sun in shadow :— not a 
sound 
Was heard ; one horrible repose 
did keep 
The forests and the floods, and all 
around 
Darkness more dread than night was 
poured upon the ground. 



Hark ! 't is the rushing of a wind 
that sweeps 
Earth and the ocean. See ! the 
lightnings yawn 
Deluging Heaven with fire, and the 
lashed deeps 
Glitter and boil beneath ; It rages 

on. 
One mighty stream, whirlwind and 
waves upthrown. 
Lightning and hail, and darkness ed- 
dying by. 
There is a pause— the sea-birds, 
that were gone 
Into their caves to shriek, come forth, 
to spy 
What calm has fallen on earth, what 
light is in the sky. 



56 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



IV. 

For, where the irresistible storm had 
cloven 
That fearful darkness, the blue sky 
was seen 
Fretted with many a fair cloud inter- 
woven 
Most delicately, and the ocean 

green. 
Beneath that opening spot of blue 
serene, 
Quivered like burning emerald : calm 
was spread 
On all below ; but far on high, 
between 
Earth and the upper air, the vast 
clouds fled. 
Countless and swift as leaves on au- 
tumn's tempest shed. 



For ever, as the war became more 
fierce 
Between the whirlwinds and the 
rack on high, 
That spot grew more serene ; blue 
light did pierce 
The woof of those white clouds, 

which seemed to lie 
Far, deep, and motionless ; while 
through the sky 
The pallid semicircle of the moon 
Passed on, in slow and moving- 
majesty ; 
Its upper horn arrayed in mists, 
which soon 
But slowly fled, like dew beneath the 
beams of noon. 



VI. 

I could not choose but gaze ; a fas- 
cination 
Dwelt in that moon and sky and 
clouds, which drew 
My fancy thither, and in expectation 
Of what, I knew not, I remained : 

the hue 
Of the white moon, amid that 
heaven so blue. 
Suddenly stained with shadow did 
appear ; 
A speck, a cloud, a shape, approach- 
ing grew. 
Like a great ship in the sun's sink- 
ing sphere 
Beheld afar at sea, and swift it came 
anear. 



Even like a bark, which from a chasm 
of mountains. 
Dark, vast, and overhanging, on a 
river 
Which there collects the strength of 
all its fountains. 
Comes forth, whilst with the speed 

its frame doth quiver, 
Sails, oars, and stream, tending to 
one endeavor ; 
So, from that chasm of light a winged 
Form, 
On all the winds of heaven ap- 
proaching ever. 
Floated, dilating as it came : the 
storm 
Pursued it with fierce blasts, and light- 
nings swift and warm. 



VIII. 

A course precipitous, of dizzy speed, 
Suspending thought and breath ; 
a monstrous sight ! 
For in the air do I behold indeed 
An Eagle and a Serpent wreathed 

in fight :— 
And now, relaxing its impetuous 
flight 
Before the aerial rock on which I 
stood, 
The Eagle, hovering, wheeled to 
left and right. 
And himg with lingering wings over 
the flood, 
And startled with its 'yells the wide 
air's solitude. 



IX. 



A shaft of light upon its wings de- 
scended. 
And every golden feather gleamed 
therein— 
Feather and scale inextricably 
blended. 
The Serpent's mailed and many- 
colored skin 
Shone through the plumes its coils 
were twined within 
By many a swoln and knotted fold, 
and high 
And far the neck, receding lithe 
and thin, 
Sustained a crested head, which 
warily 
Shifted and glanced before the Eagle's 
steadfast eye. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



57 



Arouncl, around, in ceaseless circles 
wheeling 
With clang of wings and scream, 
the Eagle sailed 
Incessantly— sometimes on high con- 
cealing 
Its lessening orbs, sometimes, as if 

it failed, 
Drooped through the air ; and still 
it shrieked and wailed, 
And, casting back its eager head, 
with beak 
And talon unremittingly assailed 
The wreathed Serpent, who did ever 
seek 
Upon his enemy's heart a mortal wound 
to wreak. 



XI. 



What life, what powei-, was kindled 
and arose 
Within the sphere of that appalling 
fray ! 
For, from the encounter of those 
wondrous foes, 
A vapor like the sea's suspended 

spray 
Hung gathered : in the void air, 
far away. 
Floated the shattered plumes : bright 
scales did leap. 
Where'er the Eagle's talons made 
their way, 
Like sparks into the darkness ; — as 
they sweep. 
Blood stains the snowy foam of the 
tumultuous deep. 



Swift chances in that combat— many 
a check. 
And many a chaiige, a dark and 
wild turmoil ; 
Sometimes the Snake aroimd his 
enemy's neck 
Locked" in stiff rings his adaman- 
tine coil, 
Until the Eagle, faint with pain 
and toil. 
Remitted his strong flight, and near 
the sea 
Languidly fluttered, hopeless so to 
foil 
His adversary, 'who then reared on 
high 
His red and burning crest, radiant 
with victory. 



Then on the white edge of the burst- 
ing surge, 
Where they had sunk together, 
would the Snake 
Relax his suffocating grasp, and 
scourge 
The wind with his wild writhings ; 

for, to break 
That chain of torment, the vast 
bird would shake 
The strength of his unconquerable 
wings 
As in despair, and with his sinewy 
neck 
Dissolve in sudden shock those linked 
rings,— 
Then soar as swift as smoke from a 
volcano springs. 



Wile battled wile, and strength en- 
countered strength. 
Thus long, but unprevailing :— the 
event 
Of that portentous fight appeared at 
length : 
Until the lamp of day was almost 

spent 
It had endured, when lifeless, 
stark, and rent. 
Hung high that mighty Serpent, and 
at last 
Fell to the sea,— while o'er the con- 
tinent. 
With clang of wings and screams, 
the Eagle past, 
Heavily borne away on the exhausted 
blast. 

XV. 

And with it fled the tempest, so that 
ocean 
And earth and sky shone through 
the atmosphere — 
Only 't was strange to see the red 
commotion 
Of waves like mountains o'er the 

sinking sphere 
Of sunset sweep, and their fierce 
roar to hear 
Amid the calm : — down the steep 
path I wound 
To the sea-shore— the evening was 
most clear 
And beautiful ; and there the sea 1 
found 
Calm as a cradled child in dreamless 
slumber bound. 



58 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XVI. 

There was a Woman, beautiful as 
morning, 
Sitting beneath the rocks upon the 
sand 
Of the waste sea— fair as one flower 
adorning 
An icy wilderness — each delicate 

hand 
Lay crossed upon her bosom, and 
the band 
Of her dark hair had fallen, and so 
she sate. 
Looking upon the waves ; on the 
bare strand 
Upon the sea-mark a small boat did 
wait. 
Pair as herself, like Love by Hope left 
desolate. 



XVII. 

It seemed that this fair Shape had 
looked upon 
That unimaginable fight, and now 
That her sweet eyes were weary of 
the sun, 
As brightly it illustrated her woe ; 
For in the tears, which silently to 
flow 
Paused not, its luster hung : she, 
watching aye 
The foam-wreaths which the faint 
tide wove below 
Upon the spangled sands, groaned 
heavily. 
And after every groan looked up over 
the sea. 



XVIII. 

And when she saw the wounded Ser 
pent make 
His path between the waves, her 
lips grew pale, 
Parted, and quivered : the tears 
ceased to break 
From her immovable eyes ; no 

voice of wail 
Escaped her ; but she rose, and, on 
the gale 
Loosening her star-bright robe and 
shadowy hair, 
Poured forth her voice ; the cav- 
erns of the vale 
That opened to the ocean caught it 
there. 
And filled with silver sounds the over- 
flowing air. 



XIX. 

She spake in language whose strange 
melody 
Might not belong to earth. I 
heard alone — 
"What made its music more melodi- 
ous be— 
The pity and the love of every 

tone ; 
But to the Snake those accents 
sweet were known 
His native tongue and hers : nor did 
he beat 
The hoar spray idly then, but, 
winding on 
Through the green shadows of the 
waves that meet i 

Near to the shore, did pause beside her 
snowy fees. 

XX. 

Then on the sands the Woman sate 

again. 
And wept and clasped her hands, 

and, all between, 
Renewed the unintelligible strain 
Of her melodious voice and elo- 
quent mien ; 
And she unveiled her bosom, and 
the green 
And glancing shadows of the sea did 
play 
O'er its marmoreal depth— one 
moment seen : 
For ere the next the Serpent did 
obey 
Her voice, and, coiled in rest, in her 
embrace it lay. 

XXI. 

Then she arose, and smiled on me, 
with eyes 
Serene yet sorrowing, like that 
planet fair. 
While yet the daylight lingereth in 
the skies, 
Which cleaves with arrowy beams 

the dark-red air,— 
And said : "To grieve is wise, but 
the despair 
Was weak and vain which led thee 
here from sleep : 
This Shalt thou know, and more, if 
thou dost dare, 
With me and with this Serpent, o'er 
the deep, 
A voyage divine and strange, compan- 
ionship to keep." 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Her voice was like the wildest, sad- 
dest tone, 
Yet sweet, of some loved voice 
heard long: ago. 
I wept. "Shall this fair woman all 
alone 
Over the sea with that fierce Ser- 
pent go ? 
His head is on her heart, and who 
can know 
How soon he may devour his feeble 
prey?" 
Such were my thoughts, when the 
tide 'gan to flow ; 
And that strange boat like the 
moon's shade did sway 
Amid reflected stars that in the water 
lay.— 



XXIII. 

A boat of rare-device, which had no 
sail 
But its own curved prow of thin 
moonstone, 
AV rough t like a web of texture fine 
and frail. 
To catch those gentlest winds 

which are not known 
To breathe, but by the steady speed 
alone 
With which it cleaves the sparkling 
sea ; and, now 
We are embarked, the mountains 
hang and frown 
Over the starry deep that gleams be- 
low 
A vast and dim expanse, as o'er the 
waves we go. 

XXIV. 

And, as we sailed, a strange and 
awful tale 
That Woman told, like such myste- 
rious dream 
As makes the slumberer's cheek with 
wonder pale ! 
'T was midnight, and around, a 

shoreless stream. 
Wide ocean rolled, when that ma- 
jestic theme 
Shrined in her heart found utterance, 
and she bent 
Her looks on mine ; those eyes a 
kindling beam 
Of love divine into my spirit sent. 
And, ere her lips could move, made the 
air eloquent. 



XXV. 

" Speak not to me, biit hear ! Much 
Shalt thou learn. 
Much must remain unthought, and 
more untold, 
In the dark Future's ever-flowing 
urn : 
Know then that from the depth of 

ages old 
Two Powers o'er mortal things do- 
minion hold. 
Ruling the world with a divided lot, — 
Immortal, all-pervading, manifold, 
Twin Genii, equal Gods— when life 
and thought 
Sprang forth, they burst the womb of 
inessential Naught. 



"The earliest dweller of the world, 
alone, 
Stood on the verge of chaos. Lo ! 
afar 
O'er the wide wild abyss two meteors 
shone. 
Sprung from the depth of its tem- 
pestuous jar : 
A blood-red Comet and the Morn- 
ing Star 
Mingling their beams in combat— As 
he stood. 
All thoughts within his mind waged 
mutual war 
In dreadful sympathy— when to the 
flood 
That fair Star fell, he turned and shed 
his brother's blood. 



XXVII. 

" Thus evil triumphed, and the Spirit 
of evil, 
One Power of many shapes which 
none may know. 
One Shape of many names ; the Fiend 
did revel 
In victory, reigning o'er a world of 

woe. 
For the new race of man went to 
and fro. 
Famished and homeless, loathed and 
loathing, wild. 
And hating good — for his immortal 
foe 
He changed from starry shape, beau- 
teous and mild, 
To a dire Snake, with man and beast 
unreconciled. 



GO 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



" The darkness lingering o'er the 
dawn of things 
Was Evil's breath and life ; this 
made him strong 
To soar aloft with overshadowing 
wings : 
And the great Spirit of Good did 

creep among 
The nations of mankind, and every 
tongue 
Curst and blasphemed him as he 
past ; for none 
Knew good from evil, though their 
names were hung 
In mockery o'er the fane where many 
a groan 
As King, and Lord, and God the con- 
quering Fiend did own, — 



" The Fiend, whose name was Le- 
gion ; Death, Decay, 
Earthquake, and Blight, and Want, 
and Madness pale, 
Winged and wan diseases, an 
array 
Numerous as leaves that strew the 

autumnal gale ; 
Poison, a snake in flowers, beneath 
the veil 
Of food and mirth hiding his mortal 
head ; 
And, without whom all these might 
naught avail, 
Fear, Hatred, Faith, and Tyranny, 
who spread 
Those subtle nets which snare the living 
and the dead. 



" His spirit is their power, and they 
his slaves 
In air, and light, and thought, and 
language, dwell ; 
And keep their state from palaces to 
graves. 
In all resorts of men — invisible. 
But when, in ebon mirror. Night- 
mare fell 
To tyrant or impostor bids them rise. 
Black winged demon forms — 
whom, from the hell, 
His reign and dwelling beneath 
nether skies. 
He loosens to their dark and blasting 
ministries. 



" In the world's youth his empire was 
as firm 
As its foundations. Soon the Spirit 
of Good, 
Though in the likeness of a loathsome 
worm. 
Sprang from the billows of the 

formless flood. 
Which shrank and fled, — and with 
that Fiend of blood 
Renewed the doubtful war. Thrones 
then first shook. 
And earth's immense and trampled^ 
multitude 
In hope on their own powers began to 
look. 
And Fear, the demon pale, his sanguine 
shrine forsook. 



"Then Greece arose, and to its bards 
and sages. 
In dream, the golden-pinioned 
Genii came. 
Even where they slept amid the night 
of ages, 
Steeping their hearts in the 

divinest flame 
Which thy breath kindled. Power 
of holiest name ! 
And oft in cycles since, when dark- 
ness gave 
New weapons to thy foe, their sun- 
like fame 
Upon the combat shone— a light to 
save. 
Like Paradise spread forth beyond the 
shadowy grave. 

XXXIII. 

" Such is this conflict— when man- 
kind doth strive 
With its oppressors in a strife of 
blood. 
Or when free thoughts, like light- 
nings, are alive, 
And in each bosom of the multitude 
Justice and truth with custom's 
hydra brood 
Wage silent war ; when priests and 
kings dissemble 
In smiles or frowns their fierce 
disquietude. 
When round pure hearts a host of 
hopes assemble, 
The Snake and Eagle meet— the world's 
foundations tremble ! 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



61 



XXXIV. 

" Thou hast beheld that fight— when 
to thy home 
Thou dost return, steep not its 
hearth in tears ; 
Though thou may'st hear that earth 
is now become 
The tyrant's garbage, which to 

his compeers, 
The vile reward of their dishonored 
years, 
He will dividing give.— The victor 
Fiend, 
Omnipotent of yore, now quails, 
and fears 
His triumph dearly won, which soon 
will lend 
An impulse swift and sure to his ap- 
proaching end. 



" List, stranger, list ! mine is a 
human form, 
Like that thou wearest — touch me 
— shrink not now ! 
My hand thou feel'st is not a ghost's, 
but warm 
With human blood.— 'T was many 

years ago 
Since first my thirstmg soul aspired 
to know 
The secrets of this wondrous world, 
when deep 
My heart was pierced with sympa- 
thy for woe 
Which could not be mine own— and 
thought did keep. 
In dream, unnatural watch beside an 
infant's sleep. 



" Woe could not be mine own, since 
far from men 
I dwelt, a free and happy orphan 
child. 
By the seashore, in a deep mountain- 
glen ; 
And near the waves and through 

the forests wild 
I roamed, to storm and darkness 
reconciled : 
For I was calm while tempest shook 
the sky : 
But, when the breathless heavens 
in beauty smiled, 
I wept sweet tears, yet too tumultu- 
ously 
For peace, and clasped my hands aloft 
in ecstasy. 



XXXVII. 

" These were forebodings of my fate 

— Before 

A woman's heart beat in my virgin 

breast. 

It had been nurtured in divinest lore : 

A dying poet gave me books, and 

blest 
With wild but holy talk the sweet 
unrest 
In which I watched him as he died 
away — 
A youth with hoary hair— a fleet- 
ing guest 
Of our lone mountains : and this lore 
did sway 
My spirit like a storm, contending there 
alway. 

XXXVIII. 

" Thus the dark tale which history 
doth unfold 
I knew, but not, methinks, as others 
know. 
For they weep not ; and Wisdom had 
unrolled 
The clouds which hide the gulf of 

mortal woe, — 
To few can she that warning vision 
show — 
For I loved all things with intense 
devotion ; 
So that, when Hope's deep source 
in fullest flow. 
Like earthquake, did uplift the stag- 
nant ocean 
Of ihuman thoughts, mine shook be- 
neath the wide emotion. 



" When first the living blood through 
all these veins 
Kindled a thought in sense, great 
France sprang forth, 
And seized, as if to break, the pon- 
derous chains 
Which bind in woe the nations of 

the earth, 
I saw, and started from my cottage- 
hearth ; 
And to the clouds and waves in tame- 
less gladness 
Shrieked, till they caught immeas- 
urable mirth. 
And laughed in light and music ; 
soon sweet madness 
Was poured upon my heart, a soft and 
thrilling sadne.s8. 



62 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XL. 

Deep slumber fell on me ;— my 

dreams were fire, 
Soft and delightful thoughts did 
rest and hover 
Like shadows o'er mj' brain ; and 
strange desire, 
The tempest of a passion raging 

over 
My tranquil soul, its depths with 
light did cover, — 
Which past ; and calm and darkness, 
sweeter far, 
Came— then I loved ; but not a 
human lover ! 
For, when I rose from sleep, the 
Morning Star 
Shone through the woodbine-wreaths 
which round my casement were. 

XLI. 

" T'was like an eye which seemed to 
smile on me. 
I watcht till, by the sun made pale, 
it sank 
Under the billows of the heaving 
sea ; 
But from its beams deep love my 

spirit drank. 
And to my brain the boundless 
world now shrank 
Into one thought— one image— yes, 
forever ! 
Even like the dayspring poured on 
vapors dank, 
The beams of that one Star did shoot 
and quiver 
Through my benighted mind — and 
were extinguished never. 



XLII. 

"The day past thus : at night, me- 
thought in dream 
A shape of speechless beauty did 
appear ; 
It stood like light on a careering 
stream 
Of golden clouds which shook the 

atmosphere ; — 
A winged youth, his radiant brow 
did wear 
The Morning Star : a wild dissolving 
bliss 
Over my frame he breathed, ap- 
proaching near, 
And bent his eyes of kindling tender- 
ness 
Near mine, and on my lips imprest a 
lingering kiss,— 



XLIII. 

"And .said: 'A spirit loves thee, 
mortal maiden : 
How wilt thou prove thy worth ? ' 
Then joy and sleep 
Together fled, my soul was deeply 
laden, 
And to the shore I went to muse 

and weep ; 
But, as I moved, over my heart did 
creep 
A joy less soft but more profound 
and strong 
Than my sweet dream, and it for- 
bade to keep 
The path of the sea-shore : that 
Spirit's tongue 
Seemed whispering in my heart, and 
bore my steps along. 



" How, to that vast and peopled city 
led 
Which was a field of holy warfare 
then, 
I walked among the dying and the 
dead. 
And shared in fearless deeds with 

evil men, 
Calm as an angel in the dragon's 
den — 
How I braved death for liberty and 
truth, 
And spurned at peace and power 
and fame — and, when 
Those hopes had lost the glory of 
their youth. 
How sadly I returned—might move the 
hearer's ruth. 



"Warm tears throng fast ! the tale 
may not be said — 
Know then that, when this grief 
had been subdued, 
I was not left, like others, cold and 
dead. 
The Spirit whom I loved in solitude 
Sustained his child : the tempest- 
shaken wood. 
The waves, the fountains, and the 
hush of night — 
These were his voice ; and well I 
understood 
His smile divine when the calm sea 
was bright 
With silent stars, and Heaven was 
breathless with delight. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



63 



"In lonely glens, amid the roar of 
rivers, 
When the dim nights were moon- 
less, have I known 
Joys which no tongue can tell ; my 
» pale lip quivers 
Wlien thought revisits them :— 

know thou alone 
That, after many wondrous years 
were flown, 
I was awakened by a shriek of woe ; 
And over me a mystic robe was 
thrown 
By viewless hands, and a bright Star 
did glow 
Before my steps— the Snake then met 
his mortal foe." 



"Thou fear est not then the Serpent 
on thy heart ? " 
"Fear it!" she said with brief 
and passionate cry, — 
And spake no more : that silence 
made me start — 
I lookt, and we were sailing pleas- 
antly, 
Swift as a cloud between the sea 
and sky. 
Beneath the rising moon seen far 
away ; 
Mountains of ice, like sapphire, 
piled on high, 
Hemming the horizon round, in si- 
lence lay 
On the still waters, — these we did ap- 
proach alway. 

XLVIII. 

And swifter and swifter grew the 
vessel's motion, 
So that a dizzy trance fell on my 
brain — 
Wild music woke me : we had passed 
the ocean 
Which girds the pole, Nature's re- 
motest reign— 
And we glode fast o'er a pellucid 
plain 
Of waters, azure with the noontide 
day. 
Ethereal mountains shone around 
—a Fane 
Stood in the midst, girt by green 
isles which lay 
On the blue sunny deep, resplendent 
far away. 



It was a Temple such as mortal hand 

Has never built, nor ecstasy nor 

dream 

Reared in the cities of enchanted 

land : 

'T was likest heaven ere yet day's 

purple stream 
Ebbs o'er the western forest, while 
the gleam 
Of the unrisen moon among the 
clouds 
Is gathering— when with many a 
golden beam 
The thronging constellations rush in 
crowds, 
Paving with fire the sky and the mar- 
moreal floods : 



Like what may be conceived of this 
vast dome 
When from the depths which 
thought can seldom pierce 
Genius beholds it rise, his native 
home, 
Girt by the deserts of the Universe, 
Yet nor in painting's light, or 
mightier verse. 
Or sculpture's marble language, can 
invest 
That shape to mortal sense— such 
glooms immerse 
That incommunicable sight, and rest 
Upon the laboring brain and over-bur- 
dened breast. 



LI. 

Winding among the lawny islands 
fair, 
Who.se blosmy forests starred the 
shadowy deep, 
The wingless boat paused where an 
ivory stair 
Its fretwork in the crystal sea did 

.steep 
Encircling that vast Fane's aerial 
heap : 
We disembarked, and through a 
portal wide 
We past— whose roof, of moon- 
stone carved, did keep 
A glimmering o'er the forms ou 
every side. 
Sculptures like life and thought, im- 
movable, deep-eyed. 



64 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



We came to a vast hall whose glori- 
ous roof 
Was diamond, which had drunk the 
lightning's sheen 
In darkness, and now poured it 
through the woof 
Of spell-inwoven clouds hung there 

to screen 
Its blinding splendor— through 
such veil was seen 
That work of subtlest power, divine 
and rare ; 
Orb above orb, with starry shapes 
between. 
And horned moons, and meteors 
strange and fair, 
On night-black columns poised— one 
hollow hemisphere ! 



Ten thousand columns in that quiver- 
ing light 
Distinct— between whose shafts 
wound far away 
The long and labyrinthine aisles, 
more bright 
With their own radiance than the 

Heaven of Day ; 
And on the jasper walls around 
there lay 
Paintings, the poesy of mightiest 
thought, 
Which did the Spirit's history dis- 
play ; 
A tale of passionate change, divinely 
taught. 
Which in their winged dance uncon- 
scious Genii wrought. 



Beneath there sate on many a sap- 
phire throne 
The Great who had departed from 
mankind, 
A mighty Senate ; some, whose 
white hair shone 
Like mountain snow, mild, beauti- 
ful, and blind ; 
Some, female forms, whose ges- 
tures beamed with mind ; 
And ardent youths, and children 
bright and fair ; 
And some had lyres whose strings 
were intertwined 
With pale and clinging flames, which 
ever there 
Waked faint yet thrilling sounds that 
pierced the crystal air. 



One seat was vacant in the midst, a 
throne 
Reared on a pyramid like sculp- 
tured flame. 
Distinct with circling steps which 
rested on 
Their own deep fire— Soon as the 

Woman came 
Into that hall, she shrieked the 
Spirit's name, 
And fell ; and vanished slowly from 
the sight. 
Darkness arose from her dissolving 
frame,- 
Which, gathering, filled that doom of 
woven light. 
Blotting its sphered stars with super- 
natural night. 



Then first two glittering lights were 

seen to glide 

In circles on the amethystine floor, 

Small serpent eyes trailing from side 

to side. 

Like meteors on a river's grassy 

shore. 
They round each other rolled, dilat- 
ing more 
And more— then rose, commingling 
into one. 
One clear and mighty planet hang- 
ing o'er 
A cloud of deepest shadow which 
was thrown 
Athwart the glowing steps and the 
crystalline throne. 



LVII. 

The cloud which rested on that cone 
of flame 
Was cloven : beneath the planet 
sate a Form 
Fairer than tongue can speak or 
thought may frame. 
The radiance of whose limbs rose- 
like and warm 
Flowed forth, and did with softest 
light inform 
The shadowy dome, the sculptures, 
and the state 
Of those assembled shapes— with 
clinging charm 
Sinking upon their hearts and mine. 
He sate 
Majestic yet more mild—calm yet com- 
passionate. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



65 



LVIII. 

Wonder and joy a passing faintness 
threw 
Over my brow— a hand supported 
me, 
Whose touch was magic strength : 
an eye of blue 
Looked into mine, like moonlight, 

soothingly ; 
And a voice said : — " Thou must a 
listener be 
This day — two mighty Spirits now 
return, 
Like birds of calm, from the world's 
raging sea, 
They pour fresh light from Hope's 
immortal urn ; 
A tale of human power— despair not 
—list and learn ! " 



LIX. 

I looked, and lo ! one stood forth elo- 
quently, 
His eyes were dark and deep, and 
the clear brow 
Which shadowed them was like the 
morning sky. 
The cloudless Heaven of Spring, 

when in their flow 
Through the bright air the soft 
winds as they blow 
Wake the green world : his gestures 
did obey 
The oracular mind that made his 
features glow, 
And, where his curved lips half-open 
lay, 
Passion's divinest stream had made im- 
petuous way. 

LX. 

Beneath the darkness of his out- 
spread hair 
He stood thus beautiful : but there 
was One 
Who sate beside him like his shadow 
there. 
And held his hand— far lovelier- 
she was known 
To be thus fair by the few lines 
alone 
Which through her floating locks and 
gathered cloak, 
Glances of soul-dissolving glory, 
shone :— 
None else beheld her eyes— in him 
they woke 
Memories which found a tongue as thus 
he silence broke. 



CANTO II. 



The star-light smile of children, the 
sweet looks 
Of women, the fair breast from 
which I fed. 
The murmur of the unreposing 
brooks, 
And the green light which, shift- 
ing overhead. 
Some tangled bower of vines 
around me shed. 
The shells on the sea-sand, and the 
wild flowers. 
The lamp-light through the rafters 
cheerly spread, 
And on the twining flax — in life's 
young hours 
These sights and sounds did nurse my 
spirit's folded powers. 



In Argolis beside the echoing sea. 
Such impulses within my mortal 
frame 
Arose, and they were dear to mem- 
ory. 
Like tokens of the dead :— but 

others came 
Soon, in another shape : the won- 
drous fame 
Of the past world, the vital words and 
deeds 
Of minds whom neither time nor 
change can tame, 
Traditions dark and old whence evil 
creeds 
Start forth, and whose dim shade a 
stream of poison feeds. 

III. 

I heard, as all have heard, the vari- 
ous story 
Of human life, and wept imwilling 
tears. 
Feeble historians of its shame and 
glory. 
False disputants on all its hopes 

and fears. 
Victims who worshipt ruin, chron- 
iclers 
Of daily scorn, and slaves who loathed 
their state, 
Yet, flattering Power, had given 
its ministers 
A throne of judgment in the grave— 
't was fate 
That among such as these my youth 
should seek its mate. 



66 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



The land in which I lived by a fell 
bane 
Was withered up. Tyrants dwelt 
side by side, 
And stabled in our homes— until the 
chain 
Stifled the captive's cry, and to 

abide 
That blasting curse men had no 
shame— all vied 
In evil, slave and despot ; fear with 
lust 
Strange fellowship through mutual 
hate had tied. 
Like two dark serpents tangled in 
the dust. 
Which on the paths of men their min- 
gling poison thrust. 



Earth, our bright home, its moim- 
tains and its waters, 
And the ethereal .shapes which are 
suspended 
Over its green expanse, and those 
fair daughters. 
The clouds, of Sun and Ocean, who 

have blended 
The colors of the air since first ex- 
tended 
It cradled the young world, none 
wandered forth 
To see or feel : a darkness had de- 
scended 
On every heart : the light which 
shows its worth 
Must among gentle thoughts and fear- 
less take its birth. 



This vital world, this home of happy 
spirits. 
Was as a dungeon to my blasted 
kind. 
All that Despair from murdered 
Hope inherits 
They sought, and, in their helpless 

misery blind, 
A deeper prison and heavier chains 
did find. 
And stronger tyrants :— a dark gulf 
before, 
The realm of a stern Ruler, 
yawned ; behind, 
Terror and Time conflicting drove, 
and bore 
On their tempestuous flood the shriek- 
ing wretch from shore. 



VII. 

Out of that ocean's wrecks had Guilt 
and Woe 
Framed a dark dwelling for their 
homeless thought, 
And, starting at the ghosts which to 
and fro 
Glide o'er its . dim and gloomy 

strand, had brought 
The worship thence which they 
each other taught. 
Well might men loathe their life ! 

well might they turn 
Even to the ills again from which 

they sought 
Such refuge after death ! well might 
they learn 
To gaze on this fair world with hope- 
less unconcern ! 



VIII. 

For they all pined in bondage ; body 
and soul, 
Tyrant and slave, victim and tor- 
turer, bent 
Before one Power, to which supreme 
control 
Over their will by their own weak- 
ness lent 
Made all its many names omnipo- 
tent ; 
All symbols of things evil, all divine ; 
And hymns of blood or mockery, 
which rent 
The air from all its fanes, did inter- 
twine 
Imposture's impious toils round each 
discordant shrine. 



I heard, as all have heard, life's vari- 
ous story. 
And in no careless heart tran- 
scribed the tale ; 
But from the sneers of men who had 
grown hoary 
In shame and scorn, from groans 

of crowds made pale 
By famine, from a mother's deso- 
late wail 
O'er her polluted child, from inno- 
cent blood 
Poured on the earth, and brows 
anxious and pale 
With the heart's warfare, did I 
gather food 
To feed my many thoughts— a tame- 
less multitude ! 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



67 



I wandered through the wrecks of 
days departed 
Far by the desolated shore, when 
even 
O'er the still sea and jagged islets 
darted 
The light of moonrise ; in the 

northern heaven, 
Among the clouds near the horizon 
driven, 
The mountains lay beneath one 
planet pale ; 
Around me broken tombs and col- 
vimns riven 
Looked vast in twilight, and the sor- 
rowing gale 
TVaked in those ruins gray its everlast- 
ing wail ! 



XI. 

I knew not who had framed these 
wonders then, 
Nor had I heard the story of their 
deeds ; 
But dwellings of a race of mightier 
men, 
And monuments of less ungentle 

creeds, 
Tell their own tale to him who 
wisely heeds 
The language which they speak ; and 
now to me 
The moonlight making pale the 
blooming weeds. 
The bright stars shining in the 
breathless sea. 
Interpreted those scrolls of mortal 
mystery. 



XII. 

Such man has been, and such may 
yet become ! 
Ay, wiser, greater, gentler, even 
than they 
Who on the fragments of yon shat- 
tered dome 
Have stamped the sign of power— 

I felt the sway 
Of the vast stream of ages bear 
away 
My floating thoughts— my heart beat 
loud and fast- 
Even as a storm let loose beneath 
the ray 
Of the still moon, my spirit onward 
past 
Beneath truth's steady beams upon its 
tumult cast. 



It shall be thus no more ! too long, 
too long, 
Sons of the glorious dead, have ye 
lain bound 
In darkness and in ruin t — Hope is 
strong, 
Justice and Truth their winged 

child have found !— 
Awake ! arise ! until the mighty 
sound 
Of your career shall scatter in its 
gust 
The thrones of the oppressor, and 
the ground 
Hide the last altar's unregarded dust, 
Whose Idol has so long betrayed your 
impious trust ! 



XIV. 

It must be so— I will arise and waken 

The multitude, and, like a sulphiir- 

ous hill 

Which on a sudden from its snows 

has shaken 

The swoon of ages, it shall burst, 

and fill 
The world with cleansing fire ; it 
must, it will — 
It may not be restrained !— and who 
shall stand 
Amid the rocking earthquake 
steadfast still. 
But Laon ? on high Freedom's desert 
land 
A tower whose marble walls the 
leagued storms withstand ! 



One summer night, in commune with 
the hope 
Thus deeply fed, amid those ruins 
gray 
I watched, beneath the dark sky's 
starry cope ; 
And ever, from that hour, upon me 

lay 
The burden of this hope, and night 
or day. 
In vision or in dream, clove to my 
breast : 
Among mankind, or when gone far 
away 
To the lone shores and mountains, 
't was a guest 
Which followed where I fled, and 
watcht when I did rest. 



68 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



These hopes found words through 
which my spirit sought 
To weave a bondage of such sym- 
pathy 
As might create some response to the 
thought 
Which ruled me now — and as the 

vapors lie 
Bright in the outspread morning's 
radiancy, 
So were these thoughts invested with 
the light 
Of language : and all bosoms made 
reply 
On which its lustre streamed, when- 
e'er it might 
Thi'ough darkness wide and deep those 
tranced spirits smite. 



XVII. 

Yes, many an eye with dizzy tears 
was dim. 
And oft I thought to clasp my own 
heart's brother. 
When I could feel the listener's 
senses swim. 
And hear his breath its own swift 

gaspings smother 
Even as my words evoked them — 
and another. 
And yet another, I did fondly deem. 
Felt that we all were sons of one 
great mother ; 
And the cold truth .such sad reverse 
did seem 
As to awake in grief from some de- 
lightful dream. 



Yes, oft beside the ruined labyrinth 

Which skirts the hoary caves of 

the green deep 

Did Laon and his friend, on one gray 

plinth. 

Round whose worn base the wild 

waves hiss and leap, 
Resting at eve, a lofty converse 
keep : 
And that his friend was false may 
now be said 
Calmly— that he, like other men, 
could weep 
Tears which are lies, and could be- 
tray and spread 
Snares for that guileless heart which 
for his own had bled. 



XIX. 

Then, had no great aim recompensed 
my sorrow, 
I must have sought dark respite! 
from its stress j 

In dreamless rest, in sleep that sees] 
no morrow— 
For to tread life's dismaying wil- 
derness 
Without one smile to cheer, one 
voice to bless. 
Amid the snares and scoffs of human- 
kind. 
Is hard — but I betrayed it not, nor 
less, 
With love that scorned return, 
sought to unbind 
The interwoven clouds which make its 
wisdom blind. 

XX. 

With deathless minds, which leave ,■ 
where they have past 
A path of light, my soul commun-i 
ion knew ; 
Till from that glorious intercourse, , 
at last. 
As from a mine of magic store, 1 1 

drew 
Words which were weapons ;— 
round my heart there grew 
The adamantine armor of their 
power. 

And from my fancy wings of golden 
hue 

Sprang forth— yet not alone from 

wisdom's tower, 

A minister of truth, these plumes young 

Laon bore. 



An orphan with my parents lived, 
whose eyes 
Were lodestars of delight which 
drew me home 
When I might wander forth ; nor 
did I prize 
Aught human thing beneath heav- ^ 

en's mighty dome 
Beyond this child : so, when sad 
hours were come, 
And baffled hope like ice still clung 
to me. 
Since kin were cold, and friends 
had now become 
Heartless and false, I turned from 
all to be, I 

Cythna, the only source of tears and ij 
smiles to thee. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



69 



XXII. 

What wert thou then y A child most 
infantine, 
Yet wandering far beyond that in- 
nocent age 
In all but its sweet looks and mien 
divine : 
Even then, methought, with the 

world's tyrant rage 
A patient warfare thy young heart 
(lid wage, 
When those soft eyes of scarcely 
conscious thought 
Some tale or thine own fancies 
would engage 
To overflow with tears, or converse 
fraught 
With passion o'er their depths its fleet- 
ing light had wrought. 

XXIIl. 

She moved upon this earth a shape 
of brightness, 
A power that from its objects 
scarcely drew 
One impulse of her being— in her 
lightness 
Most like some radiant cloud of 

morning dew 
Which wanders through the waste 
air's pathless blue 
To nourish some far desert ; she did 
seem. 
Beside me, gathering beauty as she 
grew, 
liike the bright shade of some im- 
mortal dream 
Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the 
wave of life's dark stream. 

XXIV. 

As mine own shadow was this child 
to me, 
A second self, far dearer and more 
fair, 
Which clothed in undissolving radi- 
ancy 
All those steep paths which languor 

and despair 
Of human things had made so dark 
and bare. 
But which I trod alone— nor, till be- 
reft 
Of friends, and overcome by lonely 
care. 
Knew I what solace for that loss was 
left. 
Though by a bitter wound my trusting 
._ heart was cleft. 



Once she was dear, now she was all 
I had 
To love in human life— this play- 
mate sweet, 
This child of twelve years old— so 
she was made 
My sole associate, and her willing 

feet 
Wandered with mine where earth 
and ocean meet. 
Beyond the aerial mountains whose 
vast cells 
The unreposing billows ever beat. 
Through forests wide and old, and 
lawny dells 
Where boughs of incense droop over 
the emerald wells. 



And warm and light I felt her clasp- 
ing hand 
When twined in mine : she fol- 
lowed where I went. 
Through the lone paths of our im- 
mortal land. 
It had no waste but some memorial 

lent 
Which strung me to my toil— some 
monument 
Vital with mind : then Cythna by 
my side, 
Until the bright and beaming day 
were spent, 
Would rest, with looks entreating to 
abide, 
Too earnest and too sweet ever to be 
denied. 

XXVII. 

And soon I could not have refused 
her — Thus, 
Forever, day and night, we two 
were ne'er 
Parted, but when brief sleep divided 
us : 
And, when the pauses of the lulling 

air 
Of noon beside the sea had made a 
lair 
For her soothed senses, in my arms 
she slept. 
And I kept watch over her slum- 
bers there, 
While, as the shifting visions o'er 
her swept, 
Amid her innocent rest by turns she 
smiled and wept. 



70 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XXVIII. 

And in the murmur of her dreams 
was heard 
Sometimes the name of Laon : — 
suddenly 
She would arise, and, like the secret 
bird 
Whom sunset wakens, fill the shore 

and sky 
With her sweet accents— a wild 
melody ! 
Hymns which my soul had woven to 
Freedom, strong 
The source of passion, whence they 
rose, to be ; 
Triumphant strains which, like a 
spirit's tongue, 
To the enchanted waves that child of 
glory sung— 



XXIX. 

Her white arms lifted tlirough the 
shadowy stream 
Of her loose hair — O excellently 
great 
Seemed to me then my purpose, the 
vast theme 
Of those impassioned songs, when 

Cythna sate 
Amid the calm which rapture doth 
create 
After its tumult, her heart vibrat- 
ing 
Her spirit o'er the ocean's floating 
state 
From her deep eyes far wandering, 
on the wing 
Of visions that were mine, beyond its 
utmost spring. 



For, before Cythna loved it, had my 
song 
Peopled with thoughts the bound- 
less universe, 
A mighty congregation, which were 
strong, 
Where'er they trod the darkness, 

to disperse 

The cloud of that unutterable curse 

Which clings upon mankind :— all 

things became 

Slaves to my holy and heroic verse, 

. Earth, sea and sky, the planets, life 

and fame, 
And fate, or whate'er else binds the 
world's wondrous frame. 



XXXI. 

And this beloved child thus felt the 
sway 

Of my conceptions, gathering like 
a cloud 
The very wind on which it rolls away 
Hers too were all my thoughts ere 

yet, endowed 
With music and with light, their 
fountains flowed 
"In poesy ; and her still and earnest 
face. 
Pallid with feelings which intensely 
glowed 
Within, was turned on mine with 
speechless grace, 
Watching the hopes which there her 
heart liad learned to trace. 



XXXII. 

In me communion with this purest 
being 
Kindled intenser zeal, and made 
me wise 
In knowledge, which in hers mine 
own mind seeing 
Left in the human world few mj's- 

teries. 
How without fear of evil or dis- 
guise 
Was Cythna !— what a spirit strong 
and mild. 
Which death or pain or peril could 
despise. 
Yet melt in tenderness ! what genius 
wild 
Yet mighty was enclosed within one 
simple child ! 



XXXIII. 

New lore was this— old age, with its 
gray hair, 
And wrinkled legends of unworthy 
things. 
And icy sneers, is naught : it cannot 
dare 
To burst the chains which life for- 
ever flings 
On the entangled soul's aspiring 
wings. 
So is it cold and cruel, and is made 
The careless slave of that dark 
power which brings 
Evil, like blight, on man, who, still 
betrayed. 
Laughs o'er the grave in which his liv- 
ing hopes are laid. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



71 



Nor are the strong and the sevei'e to 
keep 
The empire of the world : thus 
Cythna taught 
Even in the vision^ of her eloquent 
sleep, 
Unconscious of the power through 

which she wrought 
The woof of such intelligi^^e 
thought, 
As from the tranquil strength which 
cradled lay 
In her smile-peopled rest, my spirit 
sought 
Why the deceiver and the slave has 
sway 
O'er heralds so divine of truth's arising 
day. 



XXXV. 

Within that fairest form the female 
mind, 
Untainted by the poison-clouds 
which rest 
On the dark world, a sacred home 
did find : 
But else from the wide earth's ma- 
ternal breast 
Victorious Evil, which had dispos- 
sest 
All native power, had those fair chil- 
dren torn. 
And made them slaves to soothe 
his vile unrest, 
And minister to lust its joys forlorn, 
Till they had learned to breathe the 
atmosphere of scorn. 



XXXVI. 

This misery was but coldly felt till 

she 

Became my only friend, who had 

endued 

My purpose with a wider sympathy; 

Thus Cythna mourned with me the 

servitude 
In which the half of humankind 
were mewed. 
Victims of lust and hate, the slaves 
of slaves. 
She mourned that grace and power 
were thrown as food 
To the hyena lust, who among 
graves 
Over his loathM meal, laughing in 
agony, raves. 



XXXVII. 

And I, still gazing on that glorious 
child. 
Even as these thoughts flushed o'er 
her :— " Cythna sweet, 
Well with the world art thou unrec- 
onciled ; 
Never will peace and human nature 

meet 
Till free and equal man and woman 
greet 
Domestic peace ; and, ere this power 
can make 
In human hearts its calm and holy 
seat. 
This slavery must be broken "—as I 
spake. 
From Cythna's eyes a light of exul- 
tation brake. 



XXXVIII. 

She replied earnestly :— " It shall be 
mine. 
This task, — mine, Laon ! — tho\i 
hast much to gain ; 
Nor wilt thou at poor Cythna's pride 
repine. 
If she should lead a happy female 

train 
To meet thee over the rejoicing 
plain. 
When myriads at thy call shall 
throng around 
The Golden City."— Then the child 
did strain 
My arm upon her tremulous heart, 
and wound 
Her own about my neck, till some re- 
ply she found. 

XXXIX. 

I smiled, and spake not.— "Where- 
fore dost thou smile 
At what I say ? Laon, I am not 
weak, 
And, though my cheek might become 
pale the while. 
With thee, if thou desirest, will I 

seek, 
Through their array of banded 
slaves, to wreak 
Ruin upon the tyrants. I had thought 
It was more hard to turn my un- 
practised cheek 
To scorn and shame, and this beloved 
spot 
And thee, O dearest friend, to leave 
and murmur not. 



72 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XL. 

"Whence came I what I am y Thou, 
Laon, knowest 
How a young child should thus 
undaunted be ; 
Methinks it is a power which thou 
bestowest, 
Through which I seek, by most 

resembling thee. 
So to become most good and great 
and free ; 
Yet, far beyond this Ocean's utmost 
roar, 
In towers and huts are many like 
to me. 
Who, could they see thine eyes, or 
feel such lore 
As I have learnt from them, like me 
would fear no more. 

XLI. 

" Think'st thou that I shall speak un- 
skilfully, 
And none will heed me ? I remem- 
ber now 
How once a slave in tortures doomed 
to die 
Wa§ saved because in accents 

sweet and low 
He sung a song his judge loved 
long ago. 
As he was led to death.— All shall 
relent 
Who hear me — tears, as mine have 
flowed, shall flow. 
Hearts beat as mine now beats, with 
such intent 
As renovates the world ; a will omni- 
potent ! 

XLII. 

"Yes, I will tread Pride's golden 
palaces. 
Through Penury's roofless huts and 
squalid cells 
Will I descend, where'er in abject- 
ness 
Woman with some vile slave her 

tyrant dwells. 
There with the music of thine own 
sweet spells 
Will disenchant the captives, and 
will pour 
For the despairing, from the crystal 
wells 
Of thy deep spirit, reason's mighty 
lore. 
And power shall then abound, and 
hope arise once more. 



" Can man be free if woman be a 

slave ? 

Chain one who lives, and breathes 

this boundless air. 

To the corruption of a closed grave ! 

Can they whose mates are beasts 

condemned to bear 
Scorn heavier far than toil or 
anguish dare 
To trample their oppressors ? In 
their home. 
Among their babes, thou knowest 
a curse would wear 
The shape of woman— hoary Crime 
would come 
Behind, and Fraud rebuild Religion's 
tottering dome. 



XLIV. 

" I am a child :— I would not yet de- 
part. 
When I go forth alone, bearing 
the lamp 
Aloft which thou hast kindled in my 
heart. 
Millions of slaves from many a dun- 
geon damp 
Shall leap in joy, as the benumbing: 
cramp 
Of ages leaves their limbs— no ill may 
harm 
Thy Cythna ever— truth its radiant 
stamp 
Has fixt, as an invulnerable charm, 
Upon her children's brow, dark False- 
hood to disarm. 



XLV. 

"Wait yet awhile for the appointed 
day— 
Thou wilt depart, and I with tears 
shall stand 
Watching thy dim sail skirt the 
ocean gray ; 
Amid the dwellers of this lonely 

land 
I shall remain alone — ^and thy com- 
mand 
Shall then dissolve the world's 
unquiet trance, 
And, multitudinous as the desert 
sand 
Borne on the storm, its millions shall 
advance. 
Thronging round thee, the light of their 
deliverance. 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



73 



XL VI. 

"Then, like the forests of some path- 
less mountain 
Which from remotest glens two 
warring winds 
Involve in fire which not the loosened 
fountain 
Of broadest floods might quench, 

shall all the kinds 
Of evil catch from our uniting 
minds 
The spark which must consume 
them ; 

— Cythna then 
Will have cast off the impotence 
that binds 
Her childhood now, and though the 
paths of men 
Will pass, as the charmed bird that 
haunts the serpent's den. 



" We part ! — O Laon, I must dare, 
nor tremble. 
To meet those looks no more ! — 
Oh heavy stroke ! 
Sweet brother of my soul ! can I dis- 
semble 
The agony of this thought ? " — As 

thus she spoke. 
The gathered sobs her quivering 
accents broke. 
And in my arms she hid her beating 
breast. 
I remained still for tears — sudden 
she woke 
As one awakes from sleep, and wildly 
prest 
My bosom, her whole frame impetu- 
ously possest. 

XLVIII. 

" We part to meet again — but yon 
blue waste. 
You desert wide and deep, holds 
no recess 
Within whose happy silence, thus 
embraced. 
We might survive all ills in one 

caress : 
Nor doth the grave— I fear 't is 
passionless — 
Nor yon cold vacant Heaven : — we 
meet again 
Within the minds of men, whose 
lips shall bless 
Our memory, and whose hopes its 
light retain, 
iVhen these dissevered bones are trod- 
den in the plain." 



XLIX. 

I could not speak, though she had 
ceased, for now 
The fountains ot, her feeling, swift 
and deep. 
Seemed to suspend the tumult of 
their flow ; 
So we arose, and by the starlight 

steep 
Went homeward — neither did we 
speak nor weep. 
But, pale, were calm with passion- 
Thus subdued. 
Like evening shades that o'er the 
mountains creep. 
We moved towards our home ; where, 
in this mood. 
Each fi-om the other sought refuge in 
solitude. 

CANTO III. 



What thoughts had sway o'er 
Cythna's lonely slumber 
That night I know not ; but my 
own did seem 
As if they might ten-thousand years 
outnumber 
Of waking life, the visions of a 

dream 
Which hid in one dim gulf the 
troubled stream 
Of mind ; a boundless chaos wild and 
vast, 
Wliose limits yet were never mem- 
ory's theme : 
And I lay struggling as its whirl- 
winds past. 
Sometimes for rapture sick, sometimes 
for pain aghast. 

II. 

Two hours, whose mighty circle did 
embrace 
More time than might make gray 
the infant world, 
Rolled thus, a weary and tumultuous 
space : 
When the third came, like mist on 

breezes curled, 
From my dim sleep a shadow was 
unfurled : 
Methought, upon the threshold of a 
cave 
I sate with Cythna ; drooping bry- 
ony, pearled 
With dew from the wild streamlet's 
shattered wave. 
Hung, where we sate to taste the joys 
which Nature gave. 



74 



THE BEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



We lived a day as we were wont to 

live, 

But Nature had a robe of glory on, 

And the bright air o'er every shape 

did weave 

Intenser hues, so that the herbless 

stone, 
The leafless bough among the 
leaves alone, 
Had being clearer than its own could 
be,— 
And Cythna's pure and radiant self 
was shown. 
In this strange vision, so divine to 
me 
That, if I loved before, now love was 
agony. 



Morn fled, noon came, evening, then 
night, descended. 
And we prolonged calm talk be- 
neath the sphere 
Of the calm moon— when suddenly 
was blend,ed 
With our repose a nameless sense 

of fear ; 
And from the cave behind I seemed 
to hear 
Sounds gathering upwards— accents 
incomplete 
And stifled shrieks,— and now, 
more near and near, 
A tumult and a rush of thronging 
feet 
The cavern's secret depths beneath the 
earth did beat. 



The scene was changed, and away, 
away, away ! 
Through the air and over the sea 
we sped, 
And Cythna in my sheltering bosom 
lay, 
And the winds bore me— through 

the darkness spread 
Around, the gaping earth then 
vomited 
Legions of foul and ghastly shapes, 
which hung 
Upon my flight ; and ever as we 
fled, 
They plucked at Cythna— soon to me 
then clung 
A sense of actual things those mon- 
strous dreams among. 



And I lay struggling in the impo 
fence 
Of sleep, while outward life hac 
burst its bound. 
Though, still deluded, strove the tor 
tured sense 
To its dire wanderings to adapt thi 

sound 
Which in the light of morn wa 
poured around 
Our dwelling— breathless, pale, an<i 
unaware, 
I rose, and all the cottage crowde< 
found 
With armed men, whose glitterinji 
swords were bare. 
And whose degraded limbs the tyrant':! 
garb did wear. 



And, ere with rapid lips and gathl 

ered brow 

I could demand the cause, a feebL 

shriek — 

It was a feeble shriek, faint, far, ani 
low- 
Arrested me— my mien grew calii 

and meek. 
And, grasping a small knife, 
went to seek 
That voice among the crowd — 't wa 
Cythna's cry ! 
Beneath most calm resolve di 
agony wreak 
Its whirlwind rage :— so I pas 
quietly, 

Till I beheld where bound that deares 
child did lie. 



I started to behold her, for delight 

And exultation, and anoyance frei 

Solemn, serene, and lofty, filled th 

light 

Of the calm smile with which sh 

looked on me : 
So that I feared some brainle; 
ecstasy, 
Wrought from that bitter woe, ha 
wildered her— 
" Farewell ! farewell ! " she sal( 
as I draw nigh. 
"At first my peace was marred t 
this strange stir, 
Now I am calm as truth— its chosei 
minister. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



" Look not so, Laon— say farewell in 
hope, 
These bloody men are but the 
slaves who bear 
Their mistress to her task— it was 
my scope 
The slavery where they drag me 

now to share. 
And among captives willing chains 
to wear 
Awhile — the rest thou knowest — Re- 
turn, dear friend ! 
Let our first triumph trample the 
despair 
Which would ensnare us now, for, in 
the end, 
n victory or in death our hopes and 
fears must blend.'' 



These words had fallen on my un- 
heeding ear, 
Whilst I had watched the motions 
of the crew 
With seeming-careless glance ; not 
many were 
Around her, for their comrades 

just withdrew 
To guard some other victim— so I 
drew 
My knife, and with one impulse, sud- 
denly. 
All unaware three of their number 
slew, 
And grasped a fourth by the throat, 
and with loud cry 
ily countrymen invoked to death or 
liberty ! 



XI. 

What followed then I know not— for 
a stroke 
On my raised arm and naked head 
came down, 
Filling my eyes with blood.— AVhen 
I awoke, 
I felt that they had bound me in 

my swoon, 
And up a rock which overhangs 
the town. 
By the steep path, were bearing me : 
below 
' The plain was filled with slaughter, 
—overthrown 
The vineyards and the harvests, and 

the glow 
)f blazing roofs shone far o'er the 
white ocean's flow. 



XII. 

Upon that rock a mighty column 
stood 
Whose capital seemed sculptured 
in the sky. 
Which to the wanderers o'er the soli- 
tude 
Of distant seas, from ages long 

gone by, 
Had made a landmark ; o'er its 
heights to fly 
Scarcely the cloud, the vulture, or 
the blast. 
Has power— and, when the shades 
of evening lie 
On earth and ocean, its carved sum- 
mits cast 
The sunken daylight far through the 
aerial waste. 



They bore me to a cavern in the hill 

Beneath that column, and unbound 

me there : 

And one did strip me stark ; and one 

did fill 

A vessel from the putrid pool ; one 

bare 
A lighted torch, and four with 
friendless cai'e 
Guided my steps the cavern-paths 
along. 
Then up a steep and dark and nar- 
row stair 
We wound, until the torch's fiery 
tongue 
Amid the gushing day beamless and 
pallid hung. 



XIV. 

They raised me to the platform of 
the pile. 
That column's dizzy height : the 
grate of bi'ass. 
Through which they thrust me, open 
stood the while. 
As to its ponderous and suspended 

mass. 
With chains which eat into the 
flesh, alas ! 
With brazen links, my naked limbs 
they bound : 
The grate, as they departed to re- 
pass. 
With horrid clangor fell, and the far 
sound 
Of their retiring steps in the dense 
gloom was drowned. 



76 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



The noon was calm and bright :— 
• around that column 
The overhanging sky and circling 
sea 
Spread forth, in silentness profound 
and solemn, 
The darkness of brief frenzy cast 

on me. 
So that I knew not my own misery: 
The islands and the mountains in 
the day 
Like clouds reposed afar ; and I 
could see 
The town among the woods below 
that lay, 
And the dark rocks which bound the 
bright and glassy bay. 



XVI. 

It was so calm that scarce the feath- 
ery weed 
Sown by some eagle on the top- 
most stone 
Swayed in the air :— so bright that 
noon did breed 
No shadow in the sky beside mine 

own- 
Mine, and the shadow of my chain 
alone. 
Below, the smoke of roofs involved in 
flame 
Rested like night, all else was 
clearly shown 
In that broad glare,— yet sound to 
me none came, 
But of the living blood that ran within 
my frame. 



XVII. 

The peace of madness fled, and ah, 
too soon ! 
A ship was lying on the sunny 
main. 
Its sails were flagging in the breath- 
less noon — 
Its shadow lay beyond— That sight 

again 
Waked ^ with its presence in my 
tranced brain 
The stings of a known sorrow, keen 
and cold : 
I knew that ship bore Cythna o'er 
the plain 
Of waters, to her blighting slavery 
sold, 
And watched it with such thoughts as 
must remain untold. 



XVIII. 

I watcht, until the shades of evening 
wrapt 
Earth like an exhalation— that the 

Moved, for that calm was by the sun- 
set snapt. 
It moved a speck upon the ocean 

dark : 
Soon the wan stars came forth, 
and I could mark 
Its path no more ! I sought to close 
mine eyes. 
But, like the balls, their lids were 
stiff and stark ; 
I would have risen, but ere that I 
could rise 
My parched skin was split with pierc- 
ing agonies. 

XIX. 

I gnawed my brazen chain, and 
sought to sever 
Its adamantine links, that I might 
die ; 
O Liberty ! forgive the base en- 
deavor. 
Forgive me if, reserved for victory. 
The Champion of thy faith e'er 
sought to fly ! 
That starry night with its clear si- 
lence sent 
Tameless resolve which laughed at 
misery 
Into my soul— linked remembrance 
lent 
To that such power, to me such a severe 
content. 



To breathe, to be, to hope, or to de- 
spair 
And die, I questioned not ; nor, 
though the sun. 
Its shafts of agony kindling through 
the air, 
Moved over me, nor though, in 

evening dun, 
Or when the stars their visible 
courses run. 
Or morning, the wide universe wasi 
spread | 

In dreary calmness round me, did! 
I shun 
Its presence, nor seek refuge witLI 
the dead 
Prom one faint hope whose flower n 
dropping poison shed. 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



77 



Two days thus past— I neither raved 
nor died — 
Thirst raged within me, like a scor- 
pion's nest 
Built in mine entrails ; I had spurned 
aside 
The water-vessel while despair pos- 

sest 
My thoughts, and now no drop re- 
mained ! The uprest 
Jf the third sun brought hunger- 
but the crust 
Which had been left was to my 
craving breast 
Fuel, not food. I chewed the bitter 
dust, 
And bit my bloodless arm, and licked 
the brazen rust. 

XXII. 

My brain began to fail when the 
fourth morn 
Burst o'er the golden isles — a fear- 
ful sleep, 
Which through the caverns dreary 
and forlorn 
Of the riven soul sent its foul 

dreams to sweep 
With whirlwind swiftness— a fall 
far and deep— 
A gulf, a void, a sense of senseless- 
ness— 
These things dwelt in me, even as 
shadows keep 
Their watch in some dim charnel's 
loneliness,— 
A shoreless sea, a sky sunless and 
planetless ! 

XXIII. 

The forms which peopled this terrific 
trance 
I well remember — like a choir of 
devils. 
Around me they involved a giddy 
dance ; 
Legions seemed gathering from 

the misty levels 
Of ocean to supply those ceaseless 
revels. 
Foul ceaseless shadows : — thought 
could not divide 
The actual world from these en- 
tangling evils, 
Which so bemocked themselves that 
I descried 
Ail shapes like mine own self hideously 
multiplied. 



XXIV. 

The sense of day and night, of false 
and true. 
Was dead within me. Yet two 
visions burst 
That darkness— one, as since that 
hour I knew, 
Was not a phantom of the realms 

accurst 
Where then my spirit dwelt — but, 
of the first, 
I know not yet was it a dream or no. 
But both, though not distincter, 
were immersed 
In hues which, when through mem- 
ory's waste they flow, 
Make their divided streams more 
bright and rapid now. 



Methought that grate was lifted, and 
the seven 
Who brought me thither four stiff 
corpses bare. 
And from the frieze to the four winds 
of Heaven 
Hung them on high by the en- 
tangled hair ; 
Swarthy were three— the fourth 
was very fair : 
As they retired, the golden moon up- 
sprung. 
And eagerly, out in the giddy air 
Leaning that I might eat, I stretched 
and clung 
Over the shapeless depth in which 
those corpses hung. 



XXVI. 

A woman's shape, now lank and cold 
and blue, 
The dwelling of the many-colored 
worm. 
Hung there ; the white and hollow 
cheek I drew 
To my dry lips— What radiance did 

inform 
Those horny eyes ? whose was that 
withered form y 
Alas, alas 1 it seemed that Cythna's 
ghost 
Laught in those looks, and that the 
flesh was warm 
Within my teeth !— A whirlwind 
keen as frost 
Then in its sinking gulfs my sickening 
spirit tost. 



78 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XXVII. 

Then seemed it that a tameless hurri- 
cane 
Arose, and bore me in its dark ca- 
reer 
Beyond the sun, beyond the stars 
that wane 
On the verge of formless space— it 

languished there, 
And, dying, left a silence lone and 
drear, 
More horrible than famine : — in the 
deep 
The shape of an old man did then 
appear, 
Stately and beautiful ; that dreadful 
sleep 
His heavenly smiles dispersed, and I 
could wake and weep. 



XXVIII. 

And, when the blinding tears had 
fallen, I saw 
That column and those corpses and 
the moon, 
And felt the poisonous tooth of hun- 
ger gnaw 
My vitals, I rejoiced, as if the boon 
Of senseless death would be ac- 
corded soon ; — 
When from that stony gloom a voice 
arose, 
Solemn and sweet as when low 
winds attvme 
The midnight pines ; the grate did 
then unclose, 
And on that reverend form the moon- 
light did repose. 

XXIX. 

He struck my chains, and gently 
spake and smiled ; 
As they were .loosened by that 
Hermit old, 
Mine eyes were of their madness 
half beguiled, 
To answer those kind looks. — He 

did enfold 
His giant arms around me, to up- 
hold 
My wretched frame, my scorched 
limbs he wound 
In linen moist and balmy, and as 
cold 
As dew to drooping leaves : the chain, 
with sound 
Like earthquake, through the chasm of 
that steep stair did bound, 



XXX. 

As, lifting me, it fell !— What next I 
heard 
Were billows leaping on the harbor- 
bar 
And the shrill sea-wind, whose breath 
idly stirred 
My hair ;— I looked abroad, and 

saw a star 
Shining beside a sail, and distant 
far 
That mountain and its column, the 
known mark 
Of those who in the wide deep 
wandering are. 
So that I feared some Spirit fell and 
dark 
In trance had lain me thus within a 
fiendish bark. 



For now indeed over the salt sea- 
billow 
I sailed : yet dared not look upon 
the shape 
Of him who ruled the helm, although 
the pillow 
For my light head was hollowed in 

his lap, 
And my bare limbs his mantle did 
enwrap, 
Fearing it was a fiend : at last, he 
bent 
O'er me his aged face, as if to 
snap 
Those dreadful thoughts the gentle 
grandsire bent, 
And to my inmost soul his soothing 
looks he sent. 



XXXII. 

A soft and healing potion to my lips 
At intervals he raised— now looked 
on high. 
To mark if yet the starry giant dips 
His zone in the dim sea — now cheer- 

ingly, 
Though he said little, did he speak 
to me. 
" It is a friend beside thee— -take good 
cheer. 
Poor victim, thou art now at lib- 
erty ! " 
I joyed as those, a human tone to 
hear. 
Who in cells deep and lone have lan- 
guisht many a year. 



THE REVOLT OP ISLAM. 



79 



XXXIII. 

A dim and feeble joy, whose glimpses 
oft 
Were quencht in a relapse of 
wildering dreams, 
Yet still methon{j:ht we sailed, imtil 
aloft 
The stars of night grew pallid, and 

the beams 
Of morn descended on the ocean- 
streams, 
And still that aged man, so grand and 
mild, 
Tended me, even as some sick 
mother seems 
To hang in hope over a dying child. 
Till in the azure East darkness again 
was piled. 

XXXIV. 

And then the night-wind, steaming 
from the shore, 
Sent odors dying sweet across the 
sea, 
And the swift boat the little waves 
which bore 
Were cut by its keen keel, though 

slantingly ; 
Soon I could hear the leaves sigh, 
and could see 
The myrtle-blossoms starring the dim 
grove. 
As past the pebbly beach the boat 
did flee 
On sidelong wing into a silent cove, 
Where ebon pines a shade under the 
starlight wove. 

CANTO IV. 



I. 

The old man took the oars, and soon 
the bark 
Smote on the beach beside a tower 
of stone ; 
It was a crumbling heap whose portal 
dark 
With blooming ivy-trails was over- 
grown ; 
Upon whose floor the spangling 
sands v/ere strown. 
And rarest sea-shells, which the eter- 
nal flood, 
Slave to the mother of the months, 
had thrown 
Within the walls of that gray tower, 
which stood 
A changeling of man's art nurst amid 
Nature's brood. 



When the old man his boat had 
anchored, 
He wound me in his arms with 
tender care. 
And very few but kindly words he 
said. 
And bore me through the tower 

adown a stair. 
Whose smooth descent some cease- 
less step to wear 
For many a year had fallen. — We 
came at last 
To a small chamber which with 
mosses rare 
Was tapestried, where me his soft 
hands placed 
Upon a couch of grass and oak-leaves 
interlaced. 



The moon was darting through the 
lattices 
Its yellow light, warm as the beams 
of day — 
So warm that, to admit the dewy 
breeze. 
The old man opened them ; the 

moolight lay 
Upon a lake whose waters wove 
their play 
Even to the threshold of that lonely 
home : 
Within was seen in the dim waver- 
ing ray 
The antique sculptured roof, and 
many a tome 
Whose lore had made that sage all that 
he had become. 



IV. 

The rock-built barrier of the sea was 

past,— 

And I was on the margin of a 

lake, 

A lonely lake, amid the forests vast 

And snowy mountains : did my 

spirit wake 
From sleep as many-colored as the 
snake 
That girds eternity ? in life and truth 
Might not my heart its cravings 
ever slake ? 
Was Cythna then a dream, and all 
my youth. 
And all its hopes and fears, and all its 
joy and ruth ? 



80 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Thus madness came again—a milder 
madness 
Which darkened naught but time's 
unquiet flow 
With supernatural shades of clinging 
sadness ; 
That gentle Hermit, in my helpless 

woe, 
By my sick couch was busy to and 
fro, 
Like a strong spirit ministrant of 
good : 
When I was healed, he led me forth 
to show 
The wonders of his sylvan solitude. 
And we together sate by that isle- 
fretted flood. 



He knew his soothing words to weave 
with skill 
From all my madness told : like 
mine own heart. 
Of Cythna would he question me, 
until 
That thrilling name had ceased to 

make me start, 
From his familiar lips — it was not 
art, 
Of wisdom and of justice when he 
spoke- 
When mid soft looks of pity there 
would dart 
A glance as keen as is the lightning's 
stroke 
When it doth rive the knots of some 
ancestral oak. 



VII. 

Thus slowly from my brain the dark- 
ness rolled ; 
My thoughts their due array did 
reassume 
Through the enchantments of that 
Hermit old ; 
Then 1 bethought me of the glori- 
ous doom 
Of those who sternly struggle to 
relume 
The lamp of Hope o'er man's bewil- 
dered lot ; 
And, sitting by the waters in the 
gloom 
Of eve, to that friend's heart I told i 
ray thought— i 

That heart which had grown old, l)ut 
had corrupted not. ' 



VIII. 

That hoary man had spent his live- 
long age 
In converse with the dead who 
leave the stamp 
Of ever-biirning thoughts on many a 
page. 
When they are gone into the sense- 
less damp 
Of graves : his spirit thus became 
a lamp 
Of splendor, like to those on which 
it fed : 
Through peopled haunts, the city 
and the camp. 
Deep thirst for knowledge had his 
footsteps led, 
And all the ways of men among man- 
kind he read. 



IX. 

But custom maketh blind and ob- 
durate 
The loftiest hearts :— he had beheld 
the woe 
In which mankind was bound, but 
deemed that fate 
Which made them abject would 

preserve them so ; 
And in such faith, some steadfast 
joy to know. 
He sought this cell : but, when fame 
went abroad 
That one in Argolis did undergo 
Torture for liberty, and that the, 
crowd 
High truths from gifted lips had heard 
and understood ; 



And that the multitude was gather- 
ing wide. 
His spirit leaped within his aged 
frame. 
In lonely peace he could no more 
abide. 
But to the land on which the vic- 
tor's flame 
Had fed, my native land, the Her- 
mit came : 
Each heart was there a shield, and 
every tongue 
Was as a sword, of truth— young 
Laon's name 
Rallied their secret hopes, though 
tyrants sung 
Hymns of triumphant joy our scattered 
tribes among. 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



&1 



He came to the lone column on the 
rock, 
And with his sweet and mighty 
eloquence 
The hearts of those who watched it 
did unlock, 
And made them melt in tears of 

penitence. 
They gave him entrance free to 
bear me thence. 
"Since this," the old man said, 
" seven years are spent 
While slowly truth on thy be- 
nighted sense 
Has crept ; the hope which wildered 
it has lent 
Meanwhile to me the power of a sub- 
lime intent. 

XII. 

" Yes, from the records of my youth- 
ful state. 
And from the lore of bards and 
sages old. 
From whatsoe'er my wakened 
thoughts create 
Out of the hopes of thine aspir- 
ings bold, 
Have I collected language to un- 
fold 
Truth to my countrymen ; from 
shore to shore 
Doctrines of human power my 
words have told. 
They have been heard, and men as- 
pire to more 
rhan they have ever gained or ever 
lost of yore. 



"In secret chambers parents read, 
and weep. 
My writings to their babes, no 
longer blind ; 
And young men gather when their 
tyrants sleep. 
And vows of faith each to the other 

bind ; 
And marriageable maidens, who 
have pined 
With love till life seemed melting 
through their look, 
A warmer zeal, a nobler hope, now 
find; 
And every bosom thus is rapt and 
shook. 
Like autumn's myriad leaves in one 
swoln mountain-brook. 



"The tyrants of the Golden City 
tremble 
At voices which are heard about 
the streets. 
The ministers of fraud can scarce 
dissemble 
The lies of their own heart, -but, 

when one meets 
Another at the shrine, he inly 
weets, 
Though he says nothing, that the 
truth is known ; 
Murderers are pale upon the judg- 
ment-seats. 
And gold grows vile even to the 
wealthy crone, 
And laughter fills the Fane, and curses 
shake the Throne. 



' ' Kind thoughts, and mighty hopes, 

and gentle deeds 

Abound, for fearless love, and the 

pure law 

Of mild equality and peace, succeeds 

To faiths which long have held the 

world in awe, 
Bloody and false and cold. — As 
whirlpools draw 
All wrecks of ocean to their chasm, 
the sway 
Of thy strong genius, Laon, which 
foresaw 
This hope, compels all spirits to 
obey 
Which round thy secret strength now 
throng in wide array. 



XVI. 

" For I have been thy passive instru- 
ment " — 
(As thus the old man spake, his 
countenance 
Gleamed on me like a spirit's)— 
"Thou hast lent 
To me, to all, the power to advance 
Towards this unforeseen deliver- 
ance 
From our ancestral chains— ay, thou 
didst rear 
That lamp of hope on high which 
time nor chance 
Nor change may not extinguish, and 
my share 
Of good was o'er the world its gathered 
beams to bear. 



82 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



xvn. 

" But I, alas ! am both unknown and 
old, 
And, though the woof of wisdom I 
know well 
To dye in hues of language, I am 
cold 
In seeming, and the hopes which 

inly dwell 
My manners note that I did long 
repel ; 
But Laon's name to the tumultuous 
throng 
Were like the star whose beams 
the waves compel, 
And tempests, and hi* soul-subduing 
tongue 
Were as a lance to quell the mailed 
crest of wrong. 

XVIII. 

" Perchance blood need not flow, i: 
thou at length 
Wouldst rise, perchance the very 
slaves would spare 
Their brethren and themselves ; 
great is the strength 
Of words— for lately did a maiden 

fair. 
Who from her childhood has been 
taught to bear 
The tyrant's heaviest yoke, arise, 
and make 
Her sex the law of truth and free- 
dom hear, 
And with these quiet words—' For 
thine own sake, 
I prithee spare me' — did with ruth so 
take 



" All hearts that even the torturer, 
who had bound 
Her meek calm frame, ere it was 
yet impaled, 
Loosened her, weeping then ; nor 
could be found 
One human hand to harm her. — 

Unassailed 
Therefore she walks through the 
great City, veiled 
In virtue's adamantine eloquence, 
'Gainst scorn and death and pain 
thus trebly mailed. 
And blending, in the smiles of that 
defence. 
The serpent and the dove, wisdom and 
innocence. 



XX. 

" The wild-eyed women throng 
around her path : 
From their luxurious dungeons, 
from the dust 
Of meaner thralls, from the oppres- 
sor's wrath. 
Or the caresses of his sated lust, 
They congregate : in her they put 
their trust ; 
The tyrants send their armed slaves 
to quell 
Her power ; they, even like a 
thundei'-gust 
Caught by some forest, bend beneath 
the spell 
Of that young maiden's speech, and to 
their chiefs rebel. 



XXI. 

" Thus she doth equal laws and jus- 
tice teach 
To woman, outraged and polluted 
long ; 
Gathering the sweetest fruit in 
human reach 
For those fair hands now free, 

while armed wrong 
Trembles before her look, though 
it be strong ; 
Thousands thus dwell beside her, 
virgins bright, 
And matrons with their babes, a 
stately throng ! 
Lovers renew the vows which they 
did plight 
In early faith, and hearts long parted 
now unite ; 



" And homeless orphans find a home 
near her. 
And those poor victims of the 
proud, no less, 
Fair wrecks, on whom the smiling 
world, with stir, 
Thrusts the redemption of its 

wickedness : — 
In squalid huts and in its palaces 
Sits Lust alone, while o'er the land 
is borne 
Her voice, whose awful sweetness 
doth repress 
All evil, and her foes relenting 
turn. 
And cast the vote of love in hope's 
abandoned urn. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



83 



xxni. 

"So, in the populous City, a young 
maiden 
Has baffled Havoc of the prey 
which he 
Marks as his own whene'er, with 
chains o'crladen. 
Men make them arms to hurl down 

tyranny,— 
False arbiter between the boimd 
and free ; 
And o'er the land, in hamlets and in 
towns, 
The multitudes collect tumultu- 
ously, 
And throng in arms ; but tyranny 
disowns 
Their claim, and gathers strength 
around its trembling thrones. 

XXIV. 

"Blood soon, although unwillingly, 
to shed 
The free cannot forbear — The 
Queen of Slaves, 
The hoodwinked Angel of the blind 
and dead. 
Custom, with iron mace points to 

the graves 
Where her own standard desolately 
waves 
Over the dust of Prophets and of 
Kings. 
Many yet stand in her array — ' she 
paves 
Her path with human hearts,' and 
o'er it flings 
The wildering gloom of her immeasur- 
able wings. 



" There is a plain beneath the City's 
wall. 
Bounded by misty mountains, wide 
and vast. 
Millions there lift at Freedom's thrill- 
ing call 
Ten thousand standards wide, they 

load the blast 
Which bears one sound of many 
voices past. 
And startles on his throne their 
sceptred foe :— 
He sits amid his idle pomp aghast, 
And that his power hath past away 
doth know- 
Why pause the victor swords to seal 
his overthrow ? 



XXVI. 

" The tyrant's guards resistance yet 
maintain : 
Fearless and fierce and hard as 
beasts of blood, 
They stand a speck amid the peo- 
pled plain ; 
Carnage and ruin have been made 

their food 
From infancy— ill has become their 
good. 
And for its hateful sake their will 
has wove 
The chains which eat their hearts 
— the multitude. 
Surrounding them, with words of 
human love 
Seek from their own decay their stub- 
born minds to move. 



XXVII. 

" Over the land is felt a sudden 
pause. 
As night and day, those ruthless 
bands around. 
The watch of love is kept — a trance 
which awes 
The thoughts of men with hope — 

as, when the sound 
Of whirlwind whose fierce blasts 
the waves and clouds confound 
Dies suddenly, the mariner in fear 
Feels silence sink upon his heart — 
thus bound, 
The conquerors pause, and oh may 
freemen ne'er 
Clasp the relentless knees of Dread the 
murderer ! 



" If blood be shed, 't is but a change 
and choice 
Of bonds— from slavery to coward- 

A wretched fall !— Uplift thy 
charmed voice ! 
Pour on those evil men the love 

that lies 
Hovering within those spirit-.sooth- 
ing eyes ! 
Arise, my friend, farewell ! "-As 
thus he spake. 
From the green earth lightly I did 
arise, 
As one out of dim dreams that doth 
awake, 
And looked upon the depth of that re- 
posing lake. 



84 



THE REVOLT OP ISLAM. 



I saw my countenance reflected 
there ;— 
And then my youth fell on me like 
a wind 
Descending on still waters — my thin 
hair 
Was prematurely gray, my face 

was lined 
With channels, such as suffering 
leaves behind, 
Not age ; my brow was pale, but in 
my cheek 
And lips a flush of gnawing fire did 
find 
Their food and dwelling ; though 
mine eyes might speak 
A subtle mind and strong within a 
frame thus weak. 



XXX. 

And though their lustre now was 
spent and faded, 
Yet in my hollow looks and with- 
ered mien 
The likeness of a shape for which 
was braided 
The brightest woof of genius still 

was seen — 
One who, methought, had gone 
from the world's scene, 
And left it vacant — 't was her lover's 
face- 
It might resemble her— it once had 
been 
The mirror of her thoughts, and still 
the grace 
Which her mind's shadow cast left 
there a lingering trace. 

XXXI. 

What then was I ? She slumbered 
with the dead. 
Glory and joy and peace had come 
and gone. 
Doth the cloud perish when the 
beams are fled 
Which steeped its skirts in gold ? 

or, dark and lone, 
Doth it not through the paths of 
night, unknown. 
On outspread wings of its own wind 
upborne. 
Pour rain upon the earth ? The 
stars are shown 
When the cold moon sharpens her 
silver horn 
Under the sea, and make the wide 
night not forlorn. 



XXXII. 

Strengthened in heart, yet sad, that 
aged man 
I left with interchange of looks and 
tears 
And lingering speech, and to the 
Camp began 
My way. O'er many a mountain- 
chain which rears 
Its hundred crests aloft, my spirit 
bears 
My frame ; o'er many a dale and 
many a moor. 
And gayly now meseems serene 
earth wears 
The blosmy spring's star-bright in- 
vestiture, 
A vision which aught sad from sadness 
might allure. 



XXXIII. 

My powers revived within me, and I 
went. 
As one whom winds waft o'er the 
bending grass, 
Through many a vale of that broad 
continent. 
At night when I reposed, fair 

dreams did pass 
Before my pillow ; my own Cythna 
was. 
Not like a child of death, among 
them ever ; 
When I arose from rest, a woful 
mass 
That gentlest sleep seemed from my 
life to sever. 
As if the light of youth were not with- 
drawn forever. 

XXXIV. 

Aye as I went, that maiden who had 
reared 
The torch of Truth afar, of whose 
high deeds 
The Hermit in his pilgrimage had 
heard, 
Haunted my thoughts. Ah, Hope 

its sickness feeds 
With whatsoe'er it finds, or flowers, 
or weeds !— 
Could she be Cythna ? Was that 
corpse a shade 
Such as self-torturing thought from 
madness breeds ? 
Why was this hope not torture ? 
Yet it made 
A light around my steps which would 
not ever fade. 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



85 



CANTO V. 

I. 

Over the utmost hill at length I 
sped, 
A snowy steep :— the moon was 
hanging low 
Over the Asian mountains, and, out- 
spread 
The plain, the City, and the Camp, 

below, 
Skirted the midnight ocean's glim- 
mering flow ; 
The City's moon-lit spires and myriad 
lamps 
Like stars in a sublunar sky did 
glow. 
And fires blazed far amid the scat- 
tered camps. 
Like springs of flame which burst 
where'er swift Earthquake 
stamps. 



All slept but those in watchful arms 
who stood. 
And those who sate tending the 
beacon's light, 
And the few sounds from that vast 
multitude 
Made silence more profound.— Oh 

what a might 
Of human thought was cradled in 
that night ! 
How many hearts impenetrably 
veiled 
Beat underneath its shade, what 
secret fight 
Evil and good, in woven passions 
mailed, 
JJ'&ged through that silent throng,— a 
war that never failed I 



And now the Power of Good held 

victory, 

So, through the labyrinth of many 

a tent, 

Among the many millions who did lie 

In innocent sleep, exultingly I 

went ; 
The moon had left Heaven desert 
now, but, lent 
From eastern morn, the first faint 
lustre showed 
An armed youth ; — over his spear 

he bent 
His downward face.— "A friend ! " 
I cried aloud. 
And quickly common hopes made free- 
men understood. 



IV. 

I sate beside him while the morning 
beam 
Crept slowly over Heaven, and 
talkod with him 
Of those innnortal hopes, a glorious 
theme ! 
Which lod us forth, until the stars 

grew dim : 
And all the while methought his 
voice did swim 
As if it drowned in remembrance 
were 
Of thoughts which make the moist 
eyes overbrim : 
At last, when daylight 'gan to fill the 
air. 
He looked on me, and cried in wonder, 
"Thou art here !'' 



Then, suddenly, I knew it was the 
youth 
In whom its earliest hopes my 
spirit found ; 
But envious tongues had stained his 
spotless truth, 
And thoughtless pride his love in 

silence bound. 
And shame and sorrow mine in 
toils had wound. 
Whilst he was innocent, and I de- 
luded ; 
The truth now came upon me ; on 
the ground 
Tears of repenting joy, which fast 
intruded, 
Fell fast, and o'er its peace our min- 
gling spirits brooded. 

VI. 

Thus while with rapid lips and ear- 
nest eyes 
We talked, a sound of sweeping 
conflict, spread 
As from the earth, did suddenly 
arise ; 
From every tent, roused by that 

olamor dread. 
Our bands outsprung, and seized 
their arms— We sped 
Towards the sound : our tribes were 
gathering far. 
Those sanguine slaves, amid ten 
thousand dead 
Stabbed in their sleep, trampled in 
treacherous war 
The gentle hearts whose power their 
lives had sought to spare. 



86 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



VII. 

Like rabid snakes that sting some 
gentle child 
Who brings them food when win- 
ter false and fair 
Allures them forth with its cold 
smiles, so wild 
They rage among the camp ;— they 

overbear 
The patriot host— confusion, then 
despair 
Descends like night— when "Laon ! "' 
one did cry : 
Like a bright ghost from Heaven, 
that shout did scare 
The slaves, and, widening through 
the vaulted sky, 
Seemed sent from Earth to Heaven in 
sign of victory. 

VIII. 

In sudden panic those false murder- 
ers fled, 
Like insect tribes before the north- 
ern gale : 
But, swifter still, our hosts encom- 
passed 
Their shattered ranks, and in a 

craggy vale. 
Where even their fierce despair 
might naught avail, 
Hemmed them around !— And then 
revenge and fear 
Made the high virtue of the pa- 
triots fail : 
One pointed on his foe the mortal 
spear— 
I rushed before its point, and cried 
" Forbear, forbear ! " 

IX. 

The spear transfixed my arm that 
was uplifted 
In swift expostulation, and the 
blood 
Gushed round its point : I smiled, 
and—" O thou gifted 
With eloquence which shall not be 

withstood, 
Flow thus ! " I cried in joy, " thou 
vital flood. 
Until my heart be dry, ere thus the 
cause 
For which thou wert aught worthy 
be subdued !— 
Ah ! ye are pale,— ye weep, — your 
passions pause,— 
'T is well ! ye feel the truth of love's 
benignant laws. 



"Soldiers, our brethren and our I 
friends are slain : 
Ye murdered them, I think, as] 
they did sleep ! 
Alas ! what have ye done ? The i 
slightest pain 
Which ye might suffer, there were i 

eyes to weep, 
But ye have quenched them— there ' 
were smiles to steep 
Your hearts in balm, but they are ' 
lost in woe ; 
And those whom love did set his ; 
watch to keep 
Aroimd your tents, truth's freedom 
to bestow, 
Ye stabbed as they did sleep— but they 
forgive ye now. 

XI. 

"Oh wherefore should ill ever flow 
from ill. 
And pain still keener pain forever 
breed ? 
We all are brethren — even the slaves 
Avho kill 
For hire are men ; and to avenge 

misdeed 
On the misdoer doth but Misery 
feed 
With her own broken heart ! O 
Earth, O Heaven ! 
And thou, dread Nature, which to 
every deed. 
And all that lives or is, to be hath 
given, 
Even as to thee have these done ill, and 
are forgiven ! 

XII. 

"Join then your hands and hearts, 
and let the past 
Be as a grave, which gives not up 
its dead. 
To evil thoughts."— A film then over- 
cast 
My sense with dimness, for the 

wound, which bled 
Freshly, swift shadows o'er mine 
eyes had shed. 
When I awoke, I lay mid friends and 
foes. 
And earnest countenances on me 
shed 
The light of questioning looks, whilst 
one did close 
My wound with balmiest herbs, and 
soothed me to repose. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



87 



And one, whose spear had pierced 
me, leanod beside, 
Witli quivering lips and humid 
eyes ;— and all 
Seemed like some brothers on a jour- 
ney wide 
Gone forth, whom now strange 

meeting did befall 
In a strange land round one whom 
thev might call 
Their friend, their chief, their father, 
fur assay 
Of peril, which had saved them 
from the thrall 
Of death, now suffering. Thus the 
vast array 
Of those fraternal bands were recon- 
ciled that day. 

XIV. 

Lifting the thunder of their acclam- 
ation 
Towards the City, then the multi- 
tude. 
And I among them, went in joy— a 
nation 
Made free by love, a mighty 

brotherhood 
Linkt by a jealous interchange of 
good ; 
A glorious pageant, more magnin- 
ceiit 
Than kingly slaves arrayed in gold 
and blood, 
When they return from carnage, and 
are sent 
In triumph bright beneath the popu- 
lous battlement. 



Afar, the City-walls were thronged 
on high. 
And myriads on each giddy turret 
clung, 
And to each spire far lessening m 
the sky . 

Bright pennons on the idle winds 

w-ere hung ; 
As we approached, a shout of ]oy- 
ance sprung 
At once from all the crowd, as if the 
vast 
And peopled Earth its boundless 
skies among 
The sudden clamor of delight had 

CtlSt 

When from before its face some gen- 
eral wreck had past. 



Our armies through the City's hun- 
dred gates 
Were poured, like brooks which to 
the rocky lair 
Of some deep lake, whose silence 
them awaits. 
Throng from the mountains when 

the storms are there : 
And, as we past through the calm 
sunny air, 
A thousand flower inwoven crowns 
were shed. 
The token-flowers of truth and 
freedom fair. 
And fairest hands bound them on 
many a head, 
Those angels of love's heaven that over 
all was spread. 

XVII. 

I trod as one tranced in some rap- 
turous vision : 
Those bloody bands so lately recon- 
ciled 
Were, ever as they went, by the con- 
trition 
Of anger turned to love, from ill 

beguiled, 
And every one on them more gently 
smiled 
Because they had done evil :— the 
sweet awe 
Of such mild looks made their own 
hearts grow mild, 
And did with soft attraction ever 
draw 
Their spirits to the love of freedom's 
equal law. 

xvin. 

And they and all in one loud sym- 
phony 
My name with Liberty commin- 
gling lifted, 
"The friend and the preserver of 
tlif* frPG ' 
The parent of this joy ! " and fair 

eyes, gifted 
With feelings caught from one 
who had uplifted 
The light of a great spirit, round me 
shone ; 
And all the shapes of this grand 
scenerv shifted 
Like restless clouds before the stead- 
fast sun,— .... 
Where was that Maid ? I askea, but it 
J was known of none. 



88 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XIX. 

Laone was the name her love had 
chosen, 
For she was nameless, and her birth 
none knew : 
Where was Laone now ?— The words 
were frozen 
Within my lips with fear ; but to 

subdue 
Such dreadful hope to my great 
task was due, 
And when at length one brought re- 
ply that she 
To-morrow would appear, I then 
withdrew 
To judge what need for that great 
throng might be, 
For now the stars came thick over the 
twilight sea. 

XX. 

Yet neei. was none for rest or food 
to care, 
Even though that multitude was 
passing great, 
Since each one for the other did pre- 
pare 
All kindly succor.— Therefore to 

the gate 
Of the Imperial House, now de.so- 
late, 
I past, and there was found aghast, 
alone, 
The fallen Tyrant.— Silently he 
sate 
Upon the footstool of his golden 
throne. 
Which, starred with sunny gems, in its 
own lustre shone. 



XXI. 

Alone, but for one child who led be- 
fore him 
A graceful dance : the only living 
thing 
Of all the crowd which thither to 
adore him 
Flocked yesterday, who solace 

sought to bring 
In his abandonment !— She knew 
the King 
Had praised her dance of yore ; and 
now she wove 
Its circles, aye weeping and mur- 
muring, 
Mid her sad task of unregarded love, 
That to no smiles it might his speech- 
less sadness move. ' 



xxil. 

She fled to him, and wildly claspt his 
feet, 
When human steps were heard : — 
he moved nor spoke. 
Nor changed his hue, nor raised his 
looks to meet 
The gaze of strangers— Our loud 

entrance woke 
The echoes of the hall, which cir- 
cling broke 
The calm of its recesses ;— like a 
tomb, 
Its sculptured walls vacantly to 
the stroke 
Of footfalls answered, and the twi- 
light's gloom 
Lay like a charnel's mist within the 
radiant dome. 

XXIII. 

The little child stood tip when we 
came nigh ; 
Her lips and cheeks seemed very 
pale and wan. 
But on her forehead and within her 
eye 
Lay beauty which makes hearts 

that feed thereon 
Sick with excess of sweetness ; on 
the throne 
She leaned ; — the King, with gath- 
ered brow and lips 
Wreathed by long scorn, did inly 
sneer and frown, 
With hue like that when some great 
painter dips 
His pencil in the gloom of earthquake 
and eclipse. 

XXIV. 

She stood beside him like a rainbow 
braided 
Within some storm when scarce its 
shadows vast 
From the blue paths of the swift sun 
have faded ; 
A sweet and solemn smile, like 

Cythna's, cast 
One moment's light, which made 
my heart beat fast. 
O'er that child's parted lips— a gleam 
of bliss, 
A shade of vanisht days,— as the 
tears past 
Which wrapt it, even as with a 
father's kiss 
I prest those .softest eyes in trembling 
tenderness. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



89 



XXV. 

The sceptred wretch then from that 
solitude 
I drew, and, of his change com- 
passionate, 
With words of sadness soothed his 
rugged mood. 
But he, while pride and fear held 

deep debate, 
With sullen guile of ill-dissembled 
hate 
Glared on me as a toothless snake 
might glare : 
Pity, not scorn, I felt though des- 
olate 
The desolater now, and unaware 
The curses which he mockt had caught 
him by the hair. 



1 led him forth from that which now 
might seem 
A gorgeous grave : through portals 
sculptured deep 
With imagery beautiful as dream 
We went, and left the shades which 

tend on sleep 
Over its unregarded gold to 
keep 
Their silent watch. — The child trod 
faintingly. 
And, as she went, the tears which 
she did weep 
Glanced in the starlight ; wildered 
seemed she, 
And, when I spake, for sobs she could 
not answer me. 



At last the Tyrant cried, " She hun- 
gers, slave. 
Stab her, or give her bread ! "—It 
was a tone 
Such as sick fancies in a new-made 
grave 
Might hear. I trembled, for the 

truth was known : 
He with this child had thus been 
left alone, 
And neither had gone forth for food, 
—but he, 
In mingled pride and awe. cowered 
near liis throne. 
And she, a nursling of captivity. 
Knew naught beyond those walls, nor 
what such change might be. 



xxvai. 

And he was troubled at a charm with- 
drawn 
Thus suddenly ; that sceptres ruled 
no more — 
That even from gold the dreadful 
strength was gone 
Which once made all things sub- 
ject to its power- 
Such wonder seized him as if hour 
by hour 
The [)ast had come again ; and the 
swift fall 
Of one so great and terrible of 
yore 
To desolateness in the hearts of all 
Like wonder stirred who saw such 
awful change befal. 



XXIX. 

A mighty crowd, .such as the wide 
land pours 
Once ill a thousand years, now 
gathered round 
The fallen Tyrant ;— like the rush of 
showers 
Of hail in spring, pattering along 

the ground. 
Their many footsteps fell — else 
came no seund 
From the wide nmltitude ; that 
lonely man 
Then knew the burden of his 
change, and found, 
Concealing in the dust his visage wan, 
Refuge from the keen looks which 
through his bosom ran. 



XXX. 

And he was faint withal : I sate be- 
side him 
Upon the earth, and took that child 
so fair 
From his weak arms, that ill might 
none betide him 
Or her ;— when food was brought 

to them, her share 
To his averted lips the child did 
bear. 
But, when she saw he had enough, 
she ate. 
And wept the while ;— the lonely 
man's despair 
Hunger then overcame, and, of his 
state 
Forgetful, on the dust as in a trance he 
sate. 



90 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Slowly the silence of the multitudes 

Past, as when far is heard in some 

lone dell 

The gathering of a wind among the 

woods — 

" And he is fallen ! " they cry ; 

"he who did dwell 
Like famine or the plague, or aught 
more fell, 
Among our homes, is fallen ! the 
murderer 
Who slaked his thirsting soul, as 
from a well 
Of blood and tears, with ruin ! he is 
here ! 
Sunk in a gulf of scorn from which none 
may him rear ! " 

xxxii. 

Then was heard—" He who judged, 
let him be brought 
To judgment ! Blood for blood 
cries from the soil 
On which his crimes have deep pollu- 
tion wrought ! 
Shall Othman only unavenged de- 
spoil ? 
Shall they who by the stress of 
grinding toil 
Wrest from the unwilling earth his 
luxuries 
Perish for crime, while his foul 
blood may boil 
Or creep within his veins at will ?— 

And to high Justice make her chosen 
sacrifice." 



" What do ye seek ? what fear ye," 
then I cried, 
Suddenly starting forth, "that ye 
should shed 
The blood of Othman ?— if your hearts 
are tried 
In the true love of freedom, cease 

to dread 
This one poor lonely man—beneath 
Heaven spread 
In purest light above us all, through 
Earth, 
Maternal Earth, who doth her 
sweet smiles shed 
For all,— let him go free ; until the 
worth 
Of human nature win from these a 
second birth. 



" What call ye justice '{ Is there one 
who ne'er 
In secret thought has wisht an- 
other's ill ? — 
Are ye all pure ? Let those stand 
forth who hear 
And tremble not. Shall they insult 

and kill. 
If such they be ? their mild eyes 
can they fill 
With the false anger of the hypo- 
crite ? 
A-las, such were not pure,— the 
chastened will 
Of virtue sees that justice is the light 
Of love, and not revenge and terror 
and despite." 



XXXV. 

The murmur of the people, slowly 
dying. 
Paused as I spake, then those who 
near me were 
Cast gentle looks where the lone man 
was lying 
Shrouding his head, which now 

that infant fair 
Claspt on her lap in silence ;— 
through the air 
Sobs were then heard, and many kist 
my feet 
In pity's madness, and to the de- 
spair 
Of him whom late they curst a solace 
sweet 
His very victims brought— soft looks 
and speeches meet. 

XXXVI. 

Then to a home for his repose 
assigned, 
Accompanied by the still throng, 
he went 
In silence, where, to soothe his rank- 
ling mind, 
Some likeness of his ancient state 

was lent ; 
And, if his heart could have been 
innocent 
As those who pardoned him, he might 
have ended 
His days in peace ; but his straight 
lips were bent, 
Men said, into a smile which guile 
portended, 
A sight with which that child like hope 
' with fear was blended. 



THE REVOLT OP ISLAM. 



91 



XXXVII. 

T was midnighi now, the eve of that 
great day 
Whereon the many nations at 
whose call 
The chains of earth like mist melted 
away 
Decreed to hold a sacred Festival, 
A rite to attest the equality of all 
Who live. So to their homes, to 
dream or wake, 
All went. The sleepless silence did 
recall 
Laone to my thoughts, with hopes 
that make 
The flood recede from which their 
thirst they seek to slake. 

XXXVIII. 

The dawn flowed forth, and from its 
purple fountains 
I drank those hopes which make 
the spirit quail. 
As to the plain between the misty 
mountains 
Amid the great City, with a counte- 
nance pale, 
I went :— it was a sight which 
might avail 
To make men weep exulting tears, 
for whom 
Now first from human power the 
reverent veil 
Was torn, to see Earth from her 
general womb 
Pour forth her swarming sons to a fra- 
ternal doom ; 

XXXIX. 

To see far glancing in the misty 

morTiing 

The signs of that innumerable host, 

To hear one sound of many made, the 

warning 

Of Earth to Heaven from its free 

children tost ; 
While the eternal hills, and the sea 
lost 
In wavering light, and, starring the 
blue sky. 
The City's mjTiad spires of gold, 
almost 
With human joy made mute society — 
Its witnesses with men who must here- 
after be ; 

XL. 

To see, like some vast island from 
the ocean, 
The Altar of the Federation rear 



Its pile i' the midst,— a work which the 
devotion 
Of millions in one night created 

there. 
Sudden as when the moonrlse 
makes appear 
Strange clouds in the east ; a marble 
pyramid 
Distinct with steps : that mighty 
shape did wear 
The light of genius ; its still shadow 
hid 
Far ships : to know its height the morn- 
ing mists forbid ! 

XLI. 

To hear the restless multitudes for- 
ever 
Around the base of that great Altar 
flow. 
As on some mountain-islet burst and 
shiver 
Atlantic waves ; and solemnly and 

slow, 
As the wind bore that tumult to 
and fro. 
To feel the dreamlike music, which 
did swim 
Like beams through floating clouds 
on waves below, 
Falling in pauses from that Altar 
dim. 
As silver-sounding tongues breathed 
an aerial hymn. 

XLII. 

To hear, to see, to live, was on that 
morn 
Lethean joy ! so that all those 
assembled 
Cast off their memories of the past 
outworn ; 
Two only bosoms with their own 

life trembled. 
And mine w\as one — and we had 
both dissembled ; 
So with a beating heart I went, and 
one 
Who, having much, covets yet 
more, resembled, — 
A lost and dear possession, which not 
won, 
He walks m on oly gloom beneath the 
noonday sun. 

XLIII. 

To the great Pyramid I came : its 
stair 
With female choirs was thronged, 
the loveliest 



93 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Among the free, grouped with its 
sculptures rare ; 
As I approached, the morning's 

golden mist, 
Which now the wonder-stricken 
breezes kist 
With their cold lips, fled, and the 
summit shone 
Like Athos seen from Samothracia, 
drest 
In earliest light, by vintagers, and 
one 
Sate there, a female Shape upon an 
ivory throne : 

XLIV. 

A Form most like the imagined habi- 
tant 
Of silver exhalations sprung from 
dawn. 
By winds which feed on sunrise 
woven, to enchant 
The faiths of men : all mortal eyes 
, were drawn— 

As famished mariners, through 
strange seas gone, 
Gaze on a burning watch-tower— by 
the light 
Of those divinest lineaments. 
Alone 
With thoughts which none could 
share, from that fair sight 
I turned in sickness, for a veil shrouded 
her countenance bright. 

XLV. 

And neither did I hear the acclama- 
tions 
Which, from brief silence bursting, 
filed the air 
With her strange name and mine, 
from all the nations 
Which we, they said, in strength 

had gathered there 
From the sleep of bondage ; nor 
the vision fair 
Of that bright pageantry beheld,— 
but blind 
And silent as a breathing corpse 
did fare. 
Leaning upon my friend, till, like a 
wind 
To fevered cheeks, a voice flowed o'er 
my troubled mind. 

XLVI. 

Like music of some minstrel heavenly- 
gifted 
To one whom fiends enthral, this 
voice to me : 



Scarce did I wish her veil to be up- 
lifted, 
I was so calm and joyous.— I could 

see 
The platform where we stood, the 
statues three 
Which kept their marble watch on 
that high shrine, 
The multitudes, the mountains, 
and the sea ; 
As, when eclipse hath past, things 
sudden shine 
To men's astonished eyes most clear 
and crystalline. 

XLVII. 

At first Laone spoke most tremu- 
lously : 
But soon her voice the calmness 
which it shed 
Gathered, and — "Thou art whom I 
sought to see. 
And thou art our first votary hei'e," 

she said. 
" I had a dear friend once, but he 
is dead ! — 
And of all those on the wide earth 
who breathe. 
Thou dost resemble him alone.— I 
spread 
This veil between us two, that thou 
beneath 
Shouldst image one who may have been 
long lost in death. 

XLvrii. 

"For this wilt thou not henceforth 
pardon me ? 
Yes, but those joys which silence 
will requite 
Forbid reply ; why men have chosen 
me 
To be the Priestess of this holiest 

rite 
I scarcely know, but that the floods 
of light 
Which flow over the world have 
borne me hither 
To meet thee, long most dear ; and 
now unite 
Thine hand with mine, and may all 
comfort wither 
From both the hearts whose pulse in 
joy now beat together. 

XLIX. 

"If our own will as others' law we 
bind. 
If the foul worship trampled here 
we fear, 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



93 



If as ourselves we cease to love our 
kind ! "— 
She paused, and pointed upwards 

—sculptured there 
Three shapes around her ivory 
throne appear : 
One was a Giant, like a child asleep 
On a loose rock, whose grasp 
crusht, as it were 
In dream, sceptres and crowns ; and 

one did keep 
ts watchful eyes in doubt whether to 
smile or weep ; 



A Woman sitting on the sculptured 
disk 
Of the broad earth, and feedmg 
from one breast 
A human babe and a young basi- 
lisk ; 
Her looks were sweet as Heaven's 

when loveliest 
In autumn eves. The third Image 
was drest 
In white wings swift as clouds in 
winter skies ; 
Beneath his feet, 'mongst ghast- 
liest forms, represt 
Lay Faith, an obscene worm, who 
sought to rise, 
While calmly on the Sun he turned his 
diamond eyes. 



LI. 

Beside that Image then I sate, while 
she 
Stood mid the throngs which ever 
ebbed and flowed, 
Like light amid the shadows of the 
sea 
Cast from one cloudless star, and 

on the crowd 
That touch which none who feels 
forgets bestowed ; 
And whilst the sun returned the 
steadfast gaze 
Of the great Image, as o'er Heav- 
en it glode, 
That rite had place ; it ceased when 
sunset's blaze 
Burned o'er the isles. All stood in joy 
and deep amaze. 
When in the silence of all spirits 

there 
Laone's voice was felt, and through 
the air 
Her thrilling gestures spoke, most elo- 
ciuently fair. 



1. 

" Calm art thou as yon sunset ! swift 

and strong 
As new-fledged eagles, beautiful and 

young. 
That float among the blinding beams 
of morning : 
And underneath thy feet writhe 

Faith and Folly, 
Custom and Hell and mortal Melan- 
choly. — 
Hark ! the Earth starts to hear the 
mighty warning 
Of thy voice sublime and holy ; 
Its free spirits here assembled, 
See thee, feel thee, know thee 
now, — 
To thy voice their hearts have 
trembled. 
Like ten thousand clouds which 
flow 
With one wide wind as it flies ! 
Wisdom 1 thy irresistible children 

rise 
To hail thee ; and the elements thee 
chain. 
And their own will, to swell the glory 
of thy train. 



"O Spirit vast and deep as Night 

and Heaven ! 
Mother and soul of all to which is 

given 
The light of life, the loveliness of 
being, 
Lo ! thou dost reascend the human 

heart. 
Thy throne of power, almighty as 
thou wert 
In dreams of Poets old grown pale 
by seeing 
The shade of thee :— now millions 

To feel thy lightnings through 
them burning : 
Nature, or God, or Love, or 

Or Sympathy, the sad tears turn- 

iiif? . , 

To mutual smiles, a dramless 
treasure. 
Descends amidst us ;— Scorn and 
Hate, 
Revenge and Selfishness, are deso- 
late— 
A hundred nations swear that there 
shall be 
Pity and Peace and Love among the 
good and free ! 



94 



THE REVOLT OP ISLAM. 



3. 

" Eldest of things, divine Equality ! 
Wisdom and Love are but the slaves 

of thee, 
The Angels of thy sway, who pour 
around thee 
Treasures from all the cells of 

human thought 
And from the stars and from the 
ocean brought. 
And the last living heart whose beat- 
ings bound thee : 
The powerful and the wise had 

sought 
Thy coming ; thou, in light de- 
scending 
O'er the wide land which is 
thine own, 
Like the Spring whose breath is 
blending 
All blasts of fragrance into one, 
Comest upon the paths of men ! 
Earth bares her general bosom to 

thy ken, 
And all her childi'en here in glory 
meet 
To feed upon thy smiles, and clasp thy 
sacred feet. 



"My brethren, we are free ! The 

plains and mountains. 
The gray sea-shore, the forest, and 

the fountains. 
Are haunts of happiest dwellers ; 
man and woman. 
Their common bondage burst, may 

freely borrow 
From lawless love a solace for their 
sorrow — 
For oft we still must weep, since we 
are human. 
A stormy night's serenest mor- 
row — 
Whose showers are Pity's gentle 
tears. 
Whose clouds are smiles of 
those that die 
Like infants without hopes or 
fears, 
And whose beams are joys that 
lie 
In blended hearts— now holds 
dominion : 
The dawn of mind, which, upwards 

on a pinion 
Borne swift as sunrise, far illumines 
space. 
And clasps this barren world in its own 
bright embrace I 



5. 
" My brethren, we are free ! The 

fruits are glowing 
Beneath the .stars, and the night 

winds are flowing 
O'er the ripe corn, the birds anc 
beasts are dreaming— 
Never again may blood of bird oi 

beast 

Stain with its venomous stream i 

human feast, , 

To the pure skies in accusation 

steaming ; 1 

Avenging poisons shall hav»i 

ceased | 

To feed disease and fear ano 

madness ; 

The dwellers of the earth ancl 

air 

Shall throng around our steps iij 
gladness, 
Seeking their food or refuge 

Our toil from thought all gloriou 

forms shall cull. 
To make this Earth, our home, men 

beautiful ; 
And Science, and her sister Poesy, 
Shall clothe in light the fields an( 

cities of the free ! 



"Victory, victory to the prostratj 

nations ! 
Bear witness. Night, and ye mut 

Constellations 
Who gaze on us from your crystal 
line cars ! 
Thoughts have gone forth whos; 

powers can sleep no more I 
Victory ! Victory ! Earth's remot 
est shore. 
Regions which groan beneath th 
antarctic stars, 
The green lands cradled in th 

roar 
Of western waves, and wildei] 

I1GSS6S 

Peopled and vast which skir 
the oceans 
Where Morning dyes her goldei 

■f vpoops 

Shall soon partake our higl 
emotions : 
Kings shall turn pale 1 Al 
mighty Fear, 
The Fiend- God, when our charmei 

name he hear. 
Shall fade like shadow from his thoui 
oo-p/1 fun PS 
While Truth, with Joy enthroned, o'ei 
his lost empire reigns ! " 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



05 



LII. 

Ere she had ceased, the mists of 
night, entwining 
Their dim woof, floated o'er the 
infinite throng ; 
She, lilce a spirit through the dark- 
ness shining. 
In tones whose sweetness silence 

did prolong 
As if to lingering winds they did 
belong, 
Poured forth her inmost soul : a pas- 
sionate speech 
With wild and thrilling pauses 
woven among, 
Which whoso heard was mute, for it 
could teach 
To rapture like her own all listening 
hearts to reach. 



Her voice was as a mountain-stream 
which sweeps 
The withered leaves of autumn to 
the lake. 
And m some deep and narrow bay 
then sleeps 
In the shadow of the shores ; as 

dead leaves wake, 
Under the wave, in flowers and 
herbs which make 
Those green depths beautiful when 
skies are blue. 
The multitude so moveless did par- 
take 
Such living change, and kindling 
murmurs flew 
As o'er that speechless calm delight 
and wonder grew. 



LIV. 

Over the plain the throngs were scat- 
tered then 
In groups around the fires, which 
from the sea 
Even to the gorge of the first moun- 
tain-glen 
Blazed wide and far : the banquet 

of the free 
Was spread beneath many a dark 
cypress-tree. 
Beneath whose spires which swayed 
in the red flame 
Reclining as they ate, of Liberty 
And Hope and Justice and Laone's 
name 
Earth's children did a v/oof of happy 
converse frame. 



LV. 

Their feast was such as Earth the 
general mother 
Pours from her fairest bosom, 
when she smiles 
In the embrace of Autumn ; to each 
other 
As when some parent fondly rec- 
onciles 
Her warring children, she their 
wrath beguiles 
With her own sustenance ; they re- 
lenting weep : — 
Such was this Festival, which, 
from their isles 
And continents and winds and 
ocean's deep. 
All shapes might throng to share that 
fly or walk or creep, — 



Might share in peace and innocence : 
for gore 
Or poison none this festal did pol- 
lute, 
But, piled on high, an overflowing 
store 
Of pomegranates and citrons, fair- 
est fruit. 
Melons and dates and figs, and 
many a root 
Sweet and sustaining, and bright 
grapes ere yet 
Accursed fire their mild juice 
could transmute 
Into a mortal bane, and brown corn 
set 
In baskets ; with pure streams their 
thirsting lips they wet. 



Laone had descended fi-om the 
shrine, 
And every deepest look and holiest 
mind 
Fed on her form, though now those 
tones divine 
Were silent, as she past ; she did 

unwind 
Her veil, as with the crowds of her 
own kind 
She mixt ; some impulse made my 
heart refrain 
From seeking her that night, so I 
reclined 
Amidst a group, where on the utmost 
plain 
A festal watchflre burned beside the 
dusky main. 



96 



THE EEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



LVIII. 

And joyous was our feast ; pathetic 
talk, 
And wit, and harmony of choral 
strains, 
While far Orion o'er the waves did 
walk 
That flow among the isles, held us 

in chains 
Of sweet captivity which none dis- 
dains 
"Who feels : but, when his zone grew 
dim in mist 
Which clothes the Ocean's bosom, 
o'er the plains 
The multitudes went homeward to 
their rest, 
Which that delightful day with its own 
shadow blest. 

CANTO VI. 



Beside the dimness of the glimmer- 
ing sea, 
Weaving swift language from im- 
passioned themes, 
With that dear friend I lingered who 
to me 
So late had been restored, beneath 

the gleams 
Of the silver stars ; and ever in soft 

Of future love and peace sweet con- 
verse lapt 
Our willing fancies, till the pallid 
beams 
Of the last watch-fire fell, and dark- 
ness wrapt 
The waves, and each bright chain of 
floating fire was snapt ; 



And till we came even to the City's 
wall 
And the great gate. Then, none 
knew whence or why. 
Disquiet on the multitudes did fall ; 
And first, one pale and breathless 

passed us by. 
And stared and spoke not ; then 
with piercing cry 
A troop of wild-eyed women, by the 
shrieks 
Of their own terror driven,— tumul- 
tuously 
Hither and thither hurrying with 
pale cheeks, 
Each one from fear unknown a sudden 
refuge seeks— 



Then rallying cries of treason and of 
danger 
Resounded : and—"' They come '. 
to a^ms ! to arms ! 
The Tyrant is amongst us, and the 
stranger 
Comes to enslave us in his name ! 

to arms ! " 
In vain : for Panic, the pale fiend 
who charms 
Strength to forswear her right, those 
millions swept 
Like waves before the tempest — 
these alarms 
Come to me, as to know their cause 
I leapt 
On the gate's turret, and in rage and 
grief and scorn I wept ! 



For to the north I saw the town on 
fire, 
And its red light made morning 
pallid now. 
Which burst over wide Asia ; — 
louder, higher, 
The yells of victory and the 

screams of woe 
I heard approach, and saw the 
throng below 
Stream through the gates like foam- 
wrought waterfalls 
Fed from a thousand storms— the 
fearful glow 
Of bombs flares overhead— at in- 
tervals 
The red artillery's bolt mangling 
among them falls. 



And now the horsemen come — and 
all was done 
Swifter than I have spoken— I 
beheld 
Their red swords flash in the unrisen 
sun. 
I rusht among the rout, to have 

repelled 
That miserable flight,— one mo- 
ment quelled 
By voice and looks and eloquent de- 
spair. 
As if reproach from their own 
hearts withheld 
Their steps, they stood ; but soon 
came pouring there 
New multitudes, and did those rallied 
bands o'erbear, 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



07 



VI. 

I strove, as, drifted on some cataract 

By irresistible streams, some 

wretcli niiglit strive 

Who hears its fatal roar : the files 

compact 

Whelmed me, and from the gate 

availed to drive 
With quickening impulse, as each 
bolt did rive 
Their ranks with bloodier chasm : 
into the plain 
Disgorged at length the dead and 
the alive, 
In one dread mass, were parted, and 
the stain 
Of blood from mortal steel fell o'er the 
fields like rain. 



For now the despot's bloodhounds, 
with their prey 
Unarmed and unaware, were gorg- 
ing deep 
Their gluttony of death ; the loose 
array 
Of horsemen o'er the wild fields 

murdering sweep. 
And with loud laughter for their 
tyrant reap 
A harvest sown with other hopes, the 
while. 
Far overhead, ships from Propontis 
keep 
A killing rain of fire :— when the 
waves smile, 
As sudden earthquakes light many a 
volcano-isle. 



Thus sudden, unexpected feast was 
spread 
For the carrion-fowls of Heaven. — 
I saw the sight — 
I moved— I lived— as o'er the heaps 
of dead. 
Whose stony eyes glared in the 

morning light, 
I trod ; — to me there came no 
thought of flight. 
But with loud cries of scorn, which 
who.so heard 
That dreaded death felt in his veins 
the might 
Of virtuous shame return, the crowd 
I stirred. 
And desperation's hope in man}' hearts 
recurred. 

7 



IX. 

A band of brothers gathering round 
me made. 
Although unarmed, a steadfast 
front, and, still 
Retreating, with stern looks beneath 
the shade 
Of gathering eyebrows, did the 

victor's fill 
With doubt even in success ; delib- 
erate will 
Inspired our growing troops ; not 
overthrown, 
It gained the shelter of a grassy 
hill. 
And ever still our comrades were 
hewn down, 
And their defenceless limbs beneath 
our footsteps strown. 



Immovably we stood—in joy I found 
Beside me then, firm as a giant 

pine 
Among the mountain-vapors driven 
around. 
The old man whom I loved — his 

eyes divine 
With a mild look of courage an- 
swered mine ; 
And my young friend was near, and 
ardently 
His hand grasped mine a moment ; 
—now the line 
Of war extended to our rallying cry 
As myriads flockt in love and brother- 
hood to die. 



XI. 

For ever while the sun was climbing 
Heaven 
The horseman hewed our unarmed 
myriads down 
Safely, though, when by thirst of 
carnage driven 
Too near, those slaves were swiftly 

overthrown 
By hundreds leaping on them :-- 
flesh and bone 
(Soon made our ghastly ramparts ; 
then the shaft 
Of the artillery from the sea was 
thrown 
More fast and fiery, and the con- 
querors laught 
In pride to hear the wind our screams 
of torment waft. 



98 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XII. 

For oil one side alone the hill gave 
shelter, 
So vast that phalanx of uncon- 
quered men, 
And there the living in the blood did 
welter 
Of the dead and dying, vv'hich in 

that green glen, 
Like stifled torrents, made a plashy 
fen 
Under the feet— thus was the butch- 
ery waged 
While the sun clomb Heaven's 
eastern steep : but, when 
It 'gan to sink, a fiercer combat 
raged. 
For in more doubtful strife the armies 
were engaged. 



XIII. 

Within a cave upon a hill were found 
A bundle of rude pikes, the instru- 
ment 
Of those who war but on their native 
ground 
For natural rights : a shout of joy- 

ance, sent 
Even from our hearts, the wide air 
pierced and rent. 
As those few arms the bravest and 
the best 
Seized, and each sixth, thus armed, 
did now present 
A line which covered and sustained 
the rest, 
A confident phalanx which the foe on 
every side invest. 

XIV. 

That onset turned the foes to flight 
almost ; 
But soon they saw their present 
strength, and knew 
That coming night would to our res- 
olute host 
Bring victory ; so, dismounting, 

close they drew 
Their glittering files, and then the 
combat grew 
Unequal but most horrible ;— and 
ever 
Our myriads, whom the swift bolt 
overthrew. 
Or the red sword, failed like a moun- 
tain-river 
Which rushes forth in foam to sink in 
sands forever. 



XV. 

Sorrow and shame to see with their 
own kind 
Our human brethren mix, like 
beasts of blood. 
To mutual ruin, armed by one be- 
hind 
Who sits and scoffs '.—That friend 

so mild and good, 
Who like its shadow near my youth 
had stood. 
Was stabbed !— my old preserver's i 
hoary hair. 
With the flesh clinging to its roots, 
was strewed 
Under my feet ! I lo.st all sense of 
care, 
And like the rest I grew desperate and . 
unaware. ' 

XVI. 

The battle became ghastlier ;— in the ■ 
midst 
I paused, and saw how ugly and I 
how fell, 
O Hate ! thou art, even when thy life ; 
thou shedd'st 
For Love. The ground in many ai 

little dell 
Was broken, up and down whose] 
steeps befell 
Alternate victory and defeat ; and I 
there 
The combatants with rage most 
horrible 
Strove, and their eyes started with i 
cracking stare, i 

And impotent their tongues they lolled i 
into the air,— 



Flaccid and foamy, like a mad dog's 
hanging. 
Want, and Moon-madness, and the 
pest's swift Bane, 
When its shafts smite, while yet it 
bow is twanging. 
Have each their mark and sign, 

some ghastly stain ; 
And this was thine, O War ! of hate 
and pain 
Thou loathed slave. I saw all shapes 
of death. 
And ministered to many, o'er the' 

plain 
While carnage in the sunbeam's 
warmth did seethe 
Till Twilight o'er the east wove her 
serenest wreath. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



00 



The few who yet survived, resolute 
and firm, 
Around me fought. At the de- 
cline of day, 
Winding above the mountain's snowy 
term, 
New banners shone : they quivered 

in the ray 
Of the sun's unseen orb— ere night 
the array 
Of fresh troops hemmed us in — of 
those brave bands 
I soon survived alone — and now I 
lay 
Vanquisht and faint, the grasp of 

blooiiy hands 
felt, and saw on high the glare of fall- 
ing brands, 



XIX. 

When on my foes a sudden terror 
came, 
And they fled, scattering.— Lo ! 
with reinless speed 
A black Tartarian horse of giant 
frame 
Comes tramping o'er the dead ; the 

living bleed 
Beneath the hoofs of that tremen- 
dous steed. 
On which, like to an Angel, robed in 
white, 
Sate one waving a sword ;— the 
hosts recede 
And fly, as through their ranks with 
r.wful might 
Sweeps in the shadow of eve that Phan- 
tom swift and bright. 



And its path made a solitude.— I rose 

And markt its coming ; it relaxt 

its cour.se 

As it approacht me, and the wind that 

flows 

Through night bore accents to 

mine ear whose force 
Might create smiles in death— the 
Tartar horse 
Paused, and I .saw the Shape its 
might which swayed, 
And heard her musical pants, like 
the sweet source 
Of waters in the desert, as she said, 
•'Mount with me, Laon, now !"— I 
i-apidly obeyed. 



XXI. 

Then "Away! away!" .she cried, 
and stretcht her sword 
As 't were a scourge over the 
courser's head. 
And lightly shook the reins.— We 
spake no word, 
But like the vapor of the tempest 

fled 
Over the plain ; her dark hair was 
dispread 
Like the pine's locks upon the linger- 
ing blast ; 
Over mine eyes its shadowy strings 
it spread 
Fitfully, and the hills and streams 
fled fast. 
As o'er their glimmering forms the 
steed's broad shadow past. 

XXII. 

And his hoofs ground the rocks to 
fire and dust, 
His strong sides made the torrents 
rise in spray, 
And turbulence, as of a whirlwind's 
gust, 
Surround us ;— and still away ! 

away ! 
Through the desert night we sped, 
while she alway 
Gazed on a mountain which we 
neared, whose crest, 
Crowned with a marble ruin, in 
the ray 
Of the obscure stars gleamed ;— its 
rugged breast 
The steed strained up, and then his 
impulse did arrest. 



XXIII. 

A rocky hill which overhung the 
ocean :— 
From that lone ruin, when the 
steed that panted 
Paused, might be heard the murmur 
of the motion 
Of waters, as in spots forever 

haunted 
By the choicest winds of Heaven, 
which are enchanted 
To music by the wand of Solitude, 
That wizard wild, and the far tents 
implanted 
Upon the plain be seen by those who 
stood 
Thence marking the dark shore or 
ocean's curved flood. 



100 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XXIV. 

One moment these were heard and 
seen — another 
Past ; and the two who stood be- 
neath that night 
Each only heard or saw or felt the 
other ; 
As from the lofty steed she did 

alight, 
Cy thna ( for, from the eyes whose 
deepest light 
Of love and sadness made my lips 
feel pale 
With influence strange of mourn- 
fullest delight. 
My own sweet Cythna looked) with 
joy did quail. 
And felt her strength in tears of human 
weakness fail. 



XXV. 

And for a space in my embrace she 
rested. 
Her head on my unquiet heart re- 
posing, 
While my faint arms her languid 
frame invested : 
At length she looked on me, and, 

half unclosing 
Her tremulous lips, said : "PYiend, 
thy bands were losing 
The battle, as I stood before the King 
In bonds. I burst them then, and, 
swiftly choosing 
The time, did seize a Tartar's sword, 
and spring 
Upon his horse, and, swift as on the 
whirlwind's wing, 

xsvi. 

" Have thou and I been borne beyond 
pursuer. 
And we are here."— Then, turning 
to the steed. 
She pressed the white moon on his 
front with pure 
And rose-like lips, and many a fra- 
grant weed 
From the green ruin plucked that 
he miglit feed ; — 
But I to a stone seat that Maiden 
led. 
And kissing her fair eyes, said, 
•'Thou hast need 
Of rest," and I heapt up the courser's 
bed 
In a green mossy nook, with mountain- 
flowers dispread. 



XXVII. 

Within that ruin, where a shattered 
portal 
Looks to the eastern stars, aban- 
doned now 
By man, to be the home of things 
immortal. 
Memories like awful ghosts which 

come and go, 
And must inherit all he builds 
below. 
When he is gone, a hall stood ; o'er 
whose roof 
Fair clinging weeds with ivy pale 
did grow, 
Clasping its gray rents with a ver- 
durous woof, 
A hanging dome of leaves, a canopy 
moon-proof. 

XXVIII. 

The autumnal winds, as if spell- 
bound, had made 
A natural couch of leaves in that 
recess. 
Which seasons none disturbed, but, 
in the shade j 

Of flowering parasites, did Spring ' 

love to dress 
With their sweet blooms the win- 
try loneliness 
Of those dead leaves, shedding their 
stars whene'er 
The wandering wind her nurslings 
might caress ; 
Whose intertwining fingers ever 
there 
Made music wild and soft that filled 
the listening air. 

XXIX. 

We know not where we go, or what 
sweet dream 
May pilot us through caverns 
strange and fair 
Of far and pathless passion, while 
the stream 
Of life our bark doth on its whirl- 
pools bear. 
Spreading swift wings as sails to 
the dim air : 
Nor should we seek to know, so the 
devotion 
Of love and gentle thoughts be 
heard still there 
Louder and louder from the utmost 
ocean 
Of universal life, attuning its commo- 
tion. 



THE It K VOLT OF ISLAM. 



101 



To the pure all things are pure ! Ob- 
livion wrapt 
Our spirits, and the fearful over- 
tlirow 
Of public hope was from our being 
snapt, 
Though linked years had bound it 

there ; for now 
A power, a thirst, a knowledge, 
which below 
All thoughts, like light beyond the 
atmosphere. 
Clothing its clouds with grace, doth 
ever flow. 
Came on us, as we sate in silence there, 
Beneath the golden stars of the clear 
azure air :— 



In silence which doth follow talk that 
causes 
The baffled heart to speak with 
sighs and tears, 
When wildering passion swalloweth 
up the pauses 
Of inexpressive speech : — the 

youthful years 
Which we together past, their 
hopes and fears, 
The blood itself which ran within our 
frames, 
That likeness of the features which 
endears 
The thoughts exprest by them, our 
very names, 
And all the winged hours which speech- 
less memory claims, 

XXXII. 

Had found a voice -.—and, ere that 
voice did pass. 
The night grew damp and dim, 
and, through a rent 
Of the ruin where we sate, from the 
morass, 
A wandering Meteor by some wild 

wind sent, 
Hung high in the green dome, to 
which it lent 
A faint and pallid lustre ; while the 
song 
Of blasts, in which its blue hair 
quivering bent. 
Strewed strangest sounds the moving 
leaves among ; 
A wondrous light, the sound as of a 
spirit's tongue. 



XXXIII. 

The Meteor showed the leaves on 
which we sate. 
And Cythna's glowing arms, and 
the thick ties 
Of her soft hair which bent with 
gathered weight 
My neck near hers, her dark and 

deepening eyes, 
Which, as twin phantoms of one 
star that lies 
O'er a dim well move though the star 
reposes, 
Swam in our mute and liquid 
ecstasies, 
Her marble brow, and eager lips, 
like roses. 
With their own fragrance pale, which 
Spring but half uncloses. 



XXXIV. 

The Meteor to its far morass re- 
turned ; 
The beating of our veins one in- 
terval 
Made still ; and then I felt the blood 
that burned 
Within her frame mingle with 

mine, and fall 
Around my heart like flre ; and 
over all 
A mist was spread, the sickness of a 
deep 
And speechless swoon of joy, as 
might befal 
Two disunited spirits when they 
leap 
In union from this earth's obscure and 
fading sleep. 



XXXV. 

Was it one moment that confounded 
thus 
All thought, all sense, all feeling, 
into one 
Unutterable power, which shielded 
us 
Even from our own cold looks, 

when we had gone 
Into a wide and wild oblivion 
Of tumult and of tenderness ? or now 
Had ages, such as make the moon 
and sun. 
The seasons and mankind, their 
changes know. 
Left fear and time unfelt by us alone 
below ? 



102 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XXXVI. 

I know not. What are kisses whose 
fire clasps 
The failing heart in languishment, 
or limb 
Twined within limb ? or the quick 
dying gasps 
Of the life meeting, when the faint 

eyes swim 
Through tears of a wide mist 
boundless and dim, 
In one caress ? What is the strong 
control 
Which leads the heart that dizzy 
steep to climb 
Where far over the world those 
vapors roll 
Which blend two restless frames in one 
reposing soul ? 

XXXVII. 

It is the shadow which doth float un- 
seen, 
But not unf elt, o'er blind mortality, 
Whose divine darkness fled not from 
that green 
And lone recess, where lapt in 

peace did lie 
Our linked frames, till from the 
changing sky 
That night and still another day had 
fled; 
And then I saw and felt. The 
moon was high, 
And clouds, as of a coming storm, 
were spread 
Under its orb,— loud winds were gath- 
ering overhead. 

XXXVIII. 

Cythna's sweet lips seemed lurid in 
the moon, 
Her fairest limbs with the night 
wind were chill, 
And her dark tresses were all loosely 
strewn 
O'er her pale bosom :— all within 

was still. 
And the sweet peace of joy did 
almost fill 
The depth of her unfathomable 
look ;— 
And we sate calmly, though that 
rocky hill 
The waves contending in its caverns 
strook. 
For they foreknew the storm, and the 
gray ruin shook. 



XXXIX. 

' There we unheeding sate, in the com- 
munion 
Of interchanged vows which, with 
a rite 
Of faith most sweet and sacred, 
stampt our union. — 
Few were the living hearts which 

could unite 
Like ours, or celebrate a bridal- 
night 
With such close sympathies ; for they 
had sprung 
From linked youth, and from the 
gentle might 
Of earliest love, delayed and cherisht 
long. 
Which common hopes and fears made, 
like a tempest, strong. 



XL. 

And such is Nature's law divine that 
those 
Who grow together cannot choose 
but love. 
If faith or custom do not interpose. 
Or common slavery mar what else 

might move 
All gentlest thoughts ; as, in the 
sacred grove • 
Which shades the springs of Ethio- 
pian Nile, 
That living tree which, if the ar- 
rowy dove 
Strike with her shadow, shrinks in 
fear awhile, 
But its own kindred leaves clasps while 
the sunbeams smile, 

XLI. 

And clings to them when darkness 
may dissever 
The close caresses of all duller 
plants 
Which bloom on the wide earth ;— 
thus we forever 
Were linkt, for love had nurst us 

in the haunts 
Where knowledge from its secret 
source enchants 
Young hearts with the fresh music 
of its springing, 
Ere yet its gathered flood feeds 
human wants. 
As the great Nile feeds Egypt ; ever 
flinging 
Light on the woven boughs which o'er 
its waves are swinging. 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



103 



XLII. 

The tones of Cythna's voice like 
echoes were 
Of those far murmuring streams ; 
they rose and fell, 
Mixt with mine own in the tempestu- 
ous air, — 
And so we sate, until our talk 

befel 
Of the late ruin, swift and horrible, 
And how those seeds of hope might 
yet be sown 
Whose fruit is evil's mortal poison. 
Well 
For us this ruin made a watch-tower 
lone, 
But Cythna's eyes looked faint, and 
now two days were gone 



XLIII. 

Since she had food :— therefore I did 
awaken 
The Tartar steed, who, from his 
ebon mane 
Soon as the clinging slumbers he had 
shaken, 
Bent his thin head to seek the 

brazen rein, 
Following me obediently ; with 
pain 
Of heart so deep and dread that one 
caress. 
When lips and heart refuse to part 
again 
Till they have told their fill, could 
scarce express 
The auguish of her mute and fearful 
tenderness, 



XLIV. 

Cythna beheld me part, as I bestrode 

That willing steed— the tempest 

and the night. 

Which gave my path its safety as I 

rode 

Down the ravine of rocks, did soon 

unite 
The darkness and the tumult of 
their might 
Borne on all winds.— Far, through the 
streaming rain 
Floating, at intervals the garments 
white 
Of Cythna gleamed, and her voice 
once again 
Came to me on the gust, and soon I 
reached the plain. 



KLV. 

I dreaded not the tempest, nor did he 

Who bore me, but his eyeballs wide 

and red 

Turned on the lightning's cleft ex- 

ultingly : 

And, when the earth beneath his 

tameless tread 
Shook with the sullen thunder, he 
would .spread 
His nostrils to the blast, and joyously 
Mock the fierce peal with neigh- 
ings ; — thus we sped 
O'er the lit plain, and soon I could 
descry 
Where Death and Fire had gorged the 
spoil of victory. 



There was a desolate village in a 
wood, 
Whose bloom-inwoven leaves now 
scattering fed 
The hungry storm ; it was a place of 
blood, 
A heap of hearthless walls ;— the 

flames were dead 
Within those dwellings now,— the 
life had fled 
From all those corpses now, — but the 
wide sky. 
Flooded with lightning, was ribbed 
overhead 
By the black rafters, and around did 
lie 
Women, and babes, and men slaugh- 
tered confusedly. 



XLVII. 

Beside the fountain in the market- 
place 
Dismounting, I beheld those corpses 
stare 
With horny eyes upon each others' 
face. 
And on the earth, and on the vacant 

air. 
And upon me, close to the waters 
where 
I stoopt to slake my thirst ; — I shrank 
to taste, 
For the salt bitterness of blood was 
there ; 
But tied the steed beside, and sought 
in haste 
If any yet survived amid that ghastly 
waste. 



104 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XLVIII. 

No living thing was there beside one 
woman 
Whom I found wandering in the 
streets, and she 
"Was withered from a likeness of 
aught human 
Into a fiend, by some strange 

misery : 
Soon as she heard my steps, she 
leapt on me, 
And glued her burning lips to mine, 
and laught 
With a loud, long, and frantic laugh 
. of glee. 

And cried, " Now, Mortal, thou hast 
deeply quafift 
The Plague's blue kisses — soon millions 
shall pledge the draught ! 

XLIX. 

" My name is Pestilence — this bosom 
dry 
Once fed two babes— a sister and 
a brother — 
When I came home, one in the blood 
did lie, 
Of three death wounds— the flames 

had ate the other ! 
Since then I have no longer been a 
mother, 
But I am Pestilence ;- -hither and 
thither 
I flit about, that I may slay and 
smother ; — 
All lips which I have kist must surely 
wither, 
But Death's— if thou art he, we'll go to 
work together ! 



"What seek'st thou here? The 
moonlight comes in flashes, — 
The dew is rising dankly from the 
dell— 
'Twill moisten her ! and thou shalt 
see the gashes 
In my sweet boy, now full of 

worms— but tell 
First what thou seek'st."— "I seek 
for food."— " 'T is well, 
Thou Shalt have food ; Famine, my 
paramour, 
Waits for us at the feast — cruel 
and fell 
Is Famine, but he drives not from his 
door 
Those whom these lips have kist, alone. 
No more, no more ! " 



LI. 



As thus she spake, she graspt me 
with the strength 
Of madness, and by many a ruined 
hearth 
She led, and over many a corpse :— 
at length 
We came to a lone hut, where, on 

the earth 
Which made its floor, she in her 
ghastly mirth. 
Gathering from all those homes now 
desolate, 
Had piled three heaps of loaves, 
making a dearth 
Among the dead— round which she 
set in state 
A ring of cold stiff babes ; silent and 
stark they sate. 



LII. 

She leapt upon a pile, and lifted high 
Her mad looks to the lightning, 
and cried : "Eat ! 
Share the great feast— to-morrow we ■ 
must die ! " 
And then she spurned the loaves, 

with her pale feet. 
Towards her bloodless guests ;— 
that sight to meet. 
Mine eyes and my heart ached, and, 
but that she 
Who loved me did with absent 
looks defeat 
Despair, I might have raved in sym- 
pathy : 
But now I took the food that woman i 
offered me ; I 



LIIl. 

And, vainly having with her madness 
striven 
If I might win her to return with 
me, 
Departed. In the eastern beams of! 
Heaven 
The lightning now grew pallid— 

rapidly 
As by the shore of the tempestuous 
sea 
The dark steed bore me, and the 
mountain gray 
Soon echoed to his hoofs, and I 
could see 
Cythna among the rocks, where she^ 
alway 
Had sate with anxious eyes fixed onij|j 
the lingering day. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



105 



LIV. 

And joy was ours to meet : she was 
most pale, 
Famisht. and wet, and weary ; so 
I cast 
My arms around her, lest her steps 
should fail 
As to our home we went, and thus 

embraced, 
Her full heart seemed a deeper joy 
to taste 
Than e'er the prosperous know ; the 
steed behind 
Trod peacefully along the mountain 
waste : 
"We reach our home ere morning 
could unbind 
Wight's latest veil, and on our bridal- 
couch reclined. 



Her chilled heart having cherisht in 
my bosom. 
And sweetest kisses past, we two 
did share 
Our peaceful meal : — as an autumnal 
blossom 
Which spreads its shrunk leaves in 

the sunny air 
After cold showers, like rainbows 
woven there, 
Thus in her lips and cheeks the vital 
spirit 
Mantled, and in her eyes an atmos- 
phere 
Of health and hope ; and sorrow 

languished near it, 
Lnd fear, and all that dark despond- 
ence doth inherit. 

CANTO VII. 

I. 

So we sate joyous as the morning ray 

Which fed upon the wrecks of 

night and storm 

Now lingering on the winds ; light 

airs did play 

Among the dewy weeds, the sun 

was warm. 
And we sate linkt in the inwoven 
charm 
Of converse and caresses sweet and 
deep, 
Speechless caresses, talk that 
might disarm 
Time, though he wield the darts ot 

death and sleep, 
»,nd those thrice mortal barbs in his 
own poison steep. 



I told her of my sufferings and my 
madness, 
And how, awakened from that 
dreamy mood 
By Liberty's upi-ise, the strength of 
gladness 
Came to my spirit in my .solitude ; 
And all that now I was ; while 
tears pursued 
Each other down her fair and listen- 
ing cheek 
Fast as the thoughts which fed 
them, like a flood 
From sunbright dales ; and, when I 
ceast to speak, 
Her accents soft and sweet the pausing 
air did wake. 



III. 



She told me a strange tale of strange 
endurance. 
Like broken memories of many a 
heart 
Woven into one ; to which no firm 
assurance. 
So wild were they, could her own 

faith impart. 
She said that not a tear did dare to 
start 
From the swoln brain, and that her 
thoughts were firm. 
When from all mortal hope she did 
depart. 
Borne by those slaves across the 
ocean's term, 
And that she reached the port without 
one fear infirm. 



One was she among many there, the 
thralls 
Of the cold Tyrant's cruel lust : 
and they 
Laught mournfully in those polluted 
halls ; 
But she was calm and sad, musing 

alway 
On loftiest enterprise, till on a day 
The Tyrant heard her singing to her 
lute 
A wild and sad and spirit-thrilling 
lay. 
Like winds that die in wastes — one 
moment mute 
The evil thoughts it made which did 
his breast pollute. 



106 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



V. 

Even when he saw her wondrous 
loveliness, 
One moment to great Nature's 
sacred power 
He bent, and was no longer passion- 
less ; 
But, when he bade her to his secret 

bower 
Be borne, a loveless victim, and 
she tore 
Her locks in agony, and her words of 
flame 
And mightier looks availed not ; 
then he bore 
Again his load of slavery, and be- 
came 
A king, a heartless beast, a pageant 
and a name. 

VI. 

She told me what a loathsome agony 

Is that when selfishness mocks 

love's delight, 

Foul as in a dream's most fearful 

iniagery 

To dally with the mowing dead— 

that night 
All torture, fear, or horror, made 
seem light 
Which the soul dreams or knows, 
and, when the day 
Shone on her awful frenzy, from 
the sight. 
Where like a Spirit in fleshly chains 
she lay 
Struggling, aghast and pale the Tyrant 
fled away. 



Her madness was a beam of light, a 
power 
Which dawned through the rent 
soul ; and words it gave. 
Gestures, and looks, such as in whirl- 
winds bore 
(Which might not be withstood, 

whence none could save) 
All who approacht their sphere, 
like some calm wave 
Vext into whirlpools by the chasms 
beneath ; 
And sympathy made each attend- 
tan slave 
Fearless and free, and they began to 
breathe 
Deep curses, like the voice of flames 
^_ far underneath. 



VIII. 

The King felt pale upon his noonday 
throne : 
At night two slaves he to her cham- 
ber sent ; 
One was a green and wrinkled 
eunuch, grown 
For human shape into an instru- 
ment 
Of all things ill— distorted, bowed, 
and bent ; 
The other was a wretch from infancy 
Made dumb by poison, who naught 
knew or meant 
But to obey ; from the fire-isles came 
he, 
A diver lean and strong, of Oman's 
coral sea. 



IX. 

They bore her to a bark, and the 
.swift stroke 
Of silent rowers clove the blue 
moonlight seas. 
Until upon their path the morningj 
broke ; 
They anchored then where, be therei 
calm or breeze, , , 

The gloomiest of the drear Sym-ii 
plegades 
Shakes with the sleepless surge ;— 
tlie Ethiop there I 

Wound his long arms around her,i 
and with knees 
Like iron clasped her feet, and 
plunged with her 
Among the closing waves out of the' 
boundless air. 



" Swift as an eagle stooping from the 
plain 
Of morning light into some 
shadowy wood, 
He plunged through the green silence 
of the main. 
Through many a cavern whicli 

the eternal flood 
Had scoopt as dark lairs for its 
monster brood ; 
And among mighty shapes whict 
fled in wonder. 
And among mightier shadow* 
which pursued 
His heels, he wound ; until the dart 
rocks under .^ 

He touched a golden chain—a souno 
arose like thunder. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



107 



XI. 

" A stunning clang of massive bolts 
redoubling 
Beneatli the deep— a burst of 
waters driven 
As from the roots of the sea, raging 
and bubbling : 
And in that roof of crags a space 

was riven 
Through which there shone the 
emerald beams of heaven, 
yhot through the lines of many waves 
inwoven 
Like sunlight through acacia woods 
at even, 
Through which his way the diver 
having cloven 
Past like a spark sent up out of a burn- 
ing oven. 



XII. 

"And then," she said, "he laid me 
in a cave 
Above the waters, by that chasm 
of sea, 
A fountain round and vast, in which 
the wave, 
Imprisoned, boiled and leapt per- 
petually, 
Down wliich, one moment resting, 
he did flee, 
Winning the adverse depth ; that 
spacious cell 
Like an hupaithric temple wide 
and high. 
Whose aery dome is inaccessible. 
Was pierced with one round cleft 
through which the sunbeams fell. 



"Below, the fountain's brink was 
richly paven 
With the deep's wealth, coral and 
pearl, and sand 
Like spangling gold, and purple 
shells engraven 
With mystic legends by no mortal 

hand, 
Left there when, thronging to the 
moon's command, 
The gathering waves rent the Hes- 
perian gate 
Of mountains, and on such bright 
floor did stand 
Columns, and shapes like statues, 

and the .state 
)f kingless thrones, which earth did 
in her heart create. 



"The fiend of madness which had 

made its prey 
Of my poor heart was lulled to 
>sleep awhile : 
There was an interval of many a day. 
And a sea-eagle brought me food 

the while. 
Whose nest was built in that un- 
trodden isle. 
And who to be the jailer had been 
taught 
Of that strange dungeon ; as a 
friend whose smile 
Like light and rest at morn and even 
is sought 
That wild bird was to me, till madness 
misery brought. 



XV. 

"The misery of a madness slow and 
creeping, 
Which made the earth seem lire, 
the sea seem air, 
And the white clouds of noon, which 
oft were sleeping 
In the blue heaven so beautiful 

and fair, 
Like hosts of ghastly shadows hov- 
ering there ; 
And the sea-eagle looked a fiend who 
bore 
Thy mangled limbs for food !— 
Thus all things were 
Transformed into the agony which 
I wore 
Even as a poisoned robe around my 
bosom's core. 



XVI. 

" Again I knew the day and night 
fast fleeing, 
The eagle and the fountain and the 
air ; 
Another frenzy came— there seemed 
a being 
Within me— a strange load my 

heart did bear, 
As if .some living thing had made 
its lair 
Even in the fountains of my life :— a 
long 
And wondrous vision, wrought 
from my despair, 
Then grew, like sweet reality among 
Dim visionary woes, an unreposing 
throng. 



108 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XVII. 

"Methought I was about to be a 
mother- 
Month after month went by, and 
still I dreamt 
That we should soon be all to one 
another, 
I and my child ; and still new 

pulses seemed 
To beat beside my heart, and still 
I deemed 
There was a babe within— and, when 
the rain 
Of winter through the rifted 
cavern streamed, 
Methought, after a lapse of lingering 
pain, 
I saw that lovely shape which near my 
heart had lain. 

xvni. 

"It was a babe, beautiful from its 
birth- 
It was like thee, dear love, its eyes 
were thine. 
Its brow, its lips, and so upon the 

It laid its fingers as now rest on 

mine 
Thine own, beloved !— 't was a 
dream divine ; 
Even to remember how it fled, how 
swift. 
How utterly, might make the heart 
repine,— 
Though 't was a dream."— Then Cyth- 
na did uplift 
Her looks on mine, as if some doubt 
she sought to shift : 

KIX. 

A doubt which would not flee, a ten- 
derness 
Of questioning grief, a source of 
thronging tears : 
"Which having past, as one whom 
sobs oppress 
She spoke: "Yes, in the wilder- 
ness of years 
Her memory aye like a green home 
appears ; 
She suckt her fill even at this breast, 
sweet love, 
For many months. I had no mor- 
tal fears ; 
Methought I felt her lips and breath 
approve 
It was a human thing which to my 
bosom clove. 



XX. 

" I watcht the dawn of her first 
smiles, and soon. 
When zenith-stars were trembling 
on the wave. 
Or when the beams of the invisible 
moon 
Or sun from many a prism within 

the cave 
Their gem-born shadows to the 
water gave. 
Her looks would hunt them, and with 
outspread hand. 
From the swift lights which might 
that fountain pave, 
She would mark one, and laugh 
when, that command 
Slighting, it lingered there, and could 
not understand. 

XXI. 

" Methought her looks began to talk :, 
with me : i 

And no articulate sounds but some- j 
thing sweet 
Her lips would frame,— so sweet iti 
could not be 
That it was meaningless ; her 

touch would meet 
Mine, and our pulses calmly flow^, 
and beat j 

In response while we slept ; and, on 
a day 
When I was happiest in that 
strange retreat. 
With heaps of golden shells we two 
did play,— 
Both infants weaving wings for time's 
perpetual way. 

XXII. 

"Ere night, methought, her waning 
eyes were grown 
Weary with joy, and, tired with 
our delight. 
We on the earth like sister twins laj 
down 
On one fair mother's bosom :- 

from that night 
She fled ;— like those illusions cleai 
and bright 
Which dwell in lakes when the re( 
moon on high 
1 Pause ere it wakens tempest ;— anc 

her flight, 
■ Though 't was the death of brainles 
I fantasy, 

! Yet smote my lonesome heart moD! 
1 than all misery. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



109 



" It seemed that, in the dreary night, 
the diver 
Who brought me thither came 
again, and bore 
My child away. I saw the waters 
quiver 
When he so swiftly sunk, as once 

before : 
Then morning came — it shone even 
as of yore, 
But I was changed — the verj' life 
was gone 
Out of my heart— I wasted more 
and more 
Day after day, and, sitting there 
alone, 
Vext the inconstant waves with my 
perpetual moan. 

XXIV. 

" I was no longer mad, and yet me- 
thought 
My breasts were swoln and 
changed : — in every vein 
The blood stood still one moment, 
while that thought 
Was passing— with a gush of sick- 
ening pain 
It ebbed even to its withered 
springs again : 
When my wan eyes in stern resolve 
I turned 
From that most strange delusion, 
which would fain 
Have waked the dream for which my 
spirit yearned 
With more than human love,— then 
left it unreturned. 



XXV. 

" So, now my reason was restored to 
me, 
I struggled with that dream, 
which, like a beast 
Most fierce and beauteous, in my 
memory 
Had made its lair, and on my heart 

did feast ; 
But all that cave and all its shapes, 
possest 
By thoughts which could not fade, 
renewed each one 
Some smile, some look, some ges- 
ture, which had blest 
Me heretofore ; I, sitting there alone, 
Vext the inconstant waves with my 
perpetual moan. 



XXVI. 

"Time past, I know not whether 
months or years ; 
For day nor night nor change of 
seasons made 
Its note, but thoughts and unavail- 
ing tears ; 
And I became at last even as a 

shade, 
A smoke, a cloud on which the 
winds have preyed 
Till it be thin as air ; until, one even, 
A Nautilus upon the fountain 
played. 
Spreading his azure sail where 
breath of Heaven 
Descended not, among the waves and 
whirlpools driven. 



" And, when the Eagle came, that 
lovely thing, 
Oaring with rosy feet its silver 
boat, 
Fled near me as for shelter ; on slow 
wing 
The Eagle hovering o'er his prey 

did float ; 
But, when he saw that I with fear 
did note 
His purpose, proffering my own food 
to him, 
The eager plumes .subsided on his 
throat- 
He came where that bright child of 
sea did swim. 
And o'er it cast in peace his shadow 
broad and dim. 



" This wakened me, it gave me hu- 
man strength ; 
And hope, I know not whence or 
wherefoi'e, rose. 
But I resumed my ancient powers at 
length ; 
My spirit felt again like one of 

those. 
Like thine, whose fate it is to 
make the woes 
Of humankind their prey — what was 
this cave ? 
Its deep foundation no firm purpose 
knows, 
Immutable, resistless, strong to save, 
Like mind while yet it mocks the all- 
devouring grave. 



110 



THE BEVOLT OP ISLAM. 



XXIX. 

" And where was Laon ? might my 
heart be Jead 
While that far dearer heart could 
move and be ? 
Or whilst over the earth the pall was 
spread 
Which I had sworn to rend? I 

might be free, 
Could I but win that friendly bird 
to me 
To bring me ropes ; and long in vain 
I sought, 
By intercourse of mutual imagery 
Of objects, if such aid he could be 
taught ; 
But fruit and flowers and boughs, yet 
never ropes, he brought. 



XXX. 

"We live in our own world, and mine 
was made 
From glorious fantasies of hope de- 
parted : 
Ay, we are darkened with their float- 
ing shade, 
Or cast a lustre on them— time im- 
parted 
Such power to me I became fear- 
less-hearted. 
My eye and voice grew firm, calm 
was my mind, 
And piercing, like the morn now it 
has darted 
Its lustre on all hidden things behind 
Yon dim and fading clouds which load 
the weary wind. 



XXXI. 

"My mind became the book through 
which I grew 
Wise in all human wisdom, and its 
cave 
Which like a mine I rifled through 

and through. 
To me the keeping of its secrets 
gave, — 
One mind, the type of all, the move- 
less wave 
Whose calm reflects all moving 
things that are, 
Necessity and love and life, the 
grave 
And sympathy, fountains of hope 
and fear, 
Justice and truth and time and the 
world's natural sphere. 



XXXII. 

"And on the sand would I make 
signs to range 
These woofs, as they were woven, 
of my thought ; 
Clear elemental shapes, whose small- 
est change 
A subtler language within lan- 
guage wrought : 
The key of truths which once were 
dimly taught 
In old Crotona ;— and sweet melodies 
Of love in that lorn solitude I 
caught 
From mine own voice in dream, when 
thy dear eyes 
Shone through my sleep, and did that 
utterance harmonize. 



' ' Thy songs were winds whereon I ', 
fled at will, 
As in a winged chariot, o'er the 
plain 
Of crystal youth ; and thou wert 
there to fill 
My heart with joy, and there we 

sate again 
On the gray margin of the glimmer- 
ing main, 
Happy as then, but wiser far, for we 
Smiled on the flowery grave in 
which were lain 
Fear, Faith, and Slavery ; and man- 
kind was free. 
Equal, and pure, and wise, in wisdom's . 
prophecy. 



" For to my will my fancies were as 1 
slaves 
To do their sweet and subtile min- 
istries ; 
And oft from that bright fountain's 
shadowy waves 
They would make human throngs 

gather and rise 
To combat with my overflowing 
eyes 
And voice made deep with passion- 
thus I grew 
Familiar with the shock and thej! 
surprise 

And war of earthly minds, from| 
which I drew 
The power which has been mine to 
frame their thoughts anew. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



IJl 



XXXV. 

" And thus my prison was the popxi- 
lous earth — 
Where I saw — even as misery 
dreams of morn 
Before the east has piven its glory 
birth- 
Religion's pomp made desolate by 

the scorn 
Of Wisdom's faintest smile, and 
thrones nptorn. 
And dwellings of mild people inter- 
spersed 
With undivided fields of ripening 
corn, 
And love made free,— a hope which 
we have nurst 
Even with our blood and tears, — \;ntil 
its glory burst. 



XXXVI. 

" All is not lost ! There is some 
recompense 
For hope whose fountain can be 
thus profound. 
Even throned Evil's splendid impo- 
tence 
Girt by its hell of power, the secret 

sound 
Of hymns to truth and freedom— 
the dread bound 
Of life and death past fearlessly and 
well, 
Dungeons wherein the high resolve 
is found, 
Racks which degraded woman's 
greatness tell, 
And what may else be good and irre- 
sistible. 



"Such are the thoughts which, like 
the fires that flare 
In storm-encompast isles, we cher- 
ish yet 
In this dark ruin — .such were mine 
even there ; 
As in its sleep some odorous violet. 
While yet its leaves with nightly 
dews are wet, 
Breathes in prophetic dreams of day'.s 
uprise, 
Or as, ere Scythian frost in fear 
has met 
Spring's messengers descending from 
the skies. 
The buds foreknow their life— this 
hope must ever rise. 



"So years had past, when sudden 
earthquake rent 
The depth of ocean, and the cavern 
crack t. 
With sound as if the world's wide 
continent 
Had fallen in universal ruin 

wrackt : 
And through the cleft streamed in 
one cataract 
The stifling waters. — When I woke, 
the flood. 
Whose banded waves that crystal 
cave had sackt. 
Was ebbing round me, and ray bright 
abode 
Before me yawned— a chasm desert 
and bare and broad. 

XXXIX. 

"Above me was the sky, beneath 
the sea : 
I stood upon a point of shattered 
stone. 
And heard loose rocks rushing tumul- 
tuously 
With splash and shock into the 

deep— anon 
All ceast, and there was silence 
wide and lone. 
I felt that I was free ! The ocean- 
spray 
Quivered beneath my feet, and 
broad Heaven shone 
Around, and in my hair the winds did 
play. 
Lingering, as they pursued their unim- 
peded way. 



" My spirit moved upon the sea like 
wind. 
Which round some thyniy cape will 
lag and hover, 
Though it can wake the still cloud, 
and unbind 
The strength of tempest : day was 

almost over, 
When throUj^h the fading light I 
could discover 
A ship approaching— its white sails 
were fed 
With the north wind— its moviner 
shade did cover 
The twilight deep ;— the mariners in 
dread 
Cast anchor when they saw new rocks 
around them spread. 



112 



THE EEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XLI. 

" And, when they saw one sitting on 
a crag, 
They sent a boat to me ;— the sail- 
ors rowed 
In awe through many a new and 
fearful jag 
Of overhanging rock, through 

which there flowed 
The foam of streams that cannot 
make abode. 
They came and questioned me, but, 
when they heard 
My voice, they became silent, and 
they stood 
And moved as men in whom new love 
had stirred 
Deep thoughts : so to the ship we past 
without a word. 

CANTO VIII. 



"I SATE beside the steersman then, 
and, gazing 
Upon the west, cried, ' Spread the 
sails ! Behold ! 
The sinking moon is like a watch- 
tower blazing 
Over the mountains yet ; the City 

of Gold 
Yon cape alone does from the sight 
withhold ; 
The stream is fleet— the north 
breathes steadily 
Beneath the stars, they tremble 
with the cold ! 
Ye cannot rest upon the dreary 
sea !— 
Haste, haste to the warm home of 
happier destiny ! " 



"The mariners obeyed— the Captain 
stood 
Aloof, and, whispering to the pilot, 
said : 
' Alas, alas 1 I fear we are pursued 
By wicked ghosts : a Phantom of 

the Dead, 
The night before we sailed, came 
to my bed 
In dream, like that ! ' The pilot then 
replied : 
'It cannot be— she is a human 
Maid— 
Her low voice makes you weep— she 
is some bride 
Or daughter of high birth— she can be 
naught beside.' 



III. 

" We past the islets, borne by wind 
and stream. 
And, as we sailed, the mariners 
came near 
And thronged around to listen ;— in 
the gleam 
Of the pale moon I stood, as one 

whom fear 
May not attaint, and my calm voice 
did rear ; 
' Ye all are human— yon broad moon 
gives light 
To millions who the selfsame like- 
ness wear. 
Even while I speak— beneath this 
very night 
Their thoughts flow on like ours, in 
sadness or delight. 



" ' What dream ye ? Your own 
hands have built an home, 
Even for yourslves on a beloved 
shore : 
For some, fond eyes are pining till 
they come, 
How they will greet him when his 

toils are o'er. 
And laughing babes rush from the 
well-known door ! 
Is this your care ? ye toil for j'our 
own good — 
Ye feel and think— has some im- 
mortal power 
Such purposes ? or, in a human mood, 
Dream ye some Power thus builds for 
man in solitude ? 



'"What is that Power? Ye mock 

yourselves, and give 

A human heart to what ye cannot 

know : 

As if the cause of life could think and : 

live ! 

'T were as if man's own works 

should feel, and show 
The hopes and fears and thoughts 
from which they flow, 
And he be like to them ! Lo ! Plague 
is f rGG 
To waste. Blight, Poison, Earth- 
quake, Hail, and Snow, 
Disease and Want, and worse Neces- 
sity 
Of hate and ill, and Pride, and Fear,'; 
and Tyranny I 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



113 



" ' What Is that Power ? Some moon- 
Gtruck sophist stood 
Watching the shade from his own 
soul upthrown 
Fill Heaven and darken Earth, and 
in such mood 
The Form he saw and worshipt was 

his own, 
His likeness in the world's vast 
mirror shown ; 
And 't were an innocent dream, but 
that a faith 
Nurst by fear's dew of poison 
grows thereon, 
And that men say that Power has 
chosen Death 
On all who scorn its laws to wreak im- 
mortal wrath. 



" 'Men say that they themselves 
have heard and seen, 
Or known from others who have 
known such things, 
A Shade, a Form, which Earth and 

Heaven between. 
Wields an invisible rod— that Priests 
and Kings, 
Custom, domestic sway, ay all that 
brings 
Man's freeborn soul beneath the op- 
pressor's heel, 
Are his strong ministere, and that 
the stings 
Of Death will make the wise his 
vengeance feel, 
Though truth and virtue arm their 
hearts with tenfold steel. 



VUI. 

" ' And It is said this Power will 
punish wrong ; 
Yes, add despair to crime, and pain 
to pain ! 
And deepest hell and deathless 
snakes among 
Will bind the wretch on whom is 

fixt a stain 
Which like a plague, a burden, and 
a bane, 
Clung to him while he lived ;— for 
love and hate, 
Virtue and vice, they say, are dif- 
ference vain— 
The will of strength is right— this 
human state 
Tyrants, that they may rule, with lies 
thus desolate. 
8 



IX. 

" 'Alas, what strength ? Opinion is 
more frail 
Than yon dim cloud now fading on 
the moon 
Even while we gaze, though it awhile 
avail 
To hide the orb of truth— and every 

throne 
Of Earth or Heaven, though 
shadow, rests thei-eon, 
One shape of many names : — for this 
ye plough 
The barren waves of ocean, hence 
each one 
Is slave or tyrant ; all betray and 
bow. 
Command or kill or fear, cr wreak or 
suffer woe. 



" ' Its names are each a sign which 
maketh holy 
All power— ay, the ghost, the 
dream, the shade, 
Of power— lust, falsehood, hate, and 
pride, and folly ; 
The pattern whence all fraud and 

wrong is made, 
A law to which mankind has been 
betrayed ; 
And human love is as the name well 
known 
Of a dear mother whom the mur- 
derer laid 
In bloody grave, and, into darkness 
thrown. 
Gathered her wildered babes around 
him as his own. 



XI. 

" ' Oh ! Love, who to the heart of 
wandering man 
Art as the calm to ocean's weary 
waves ! 
Justice, or truth, or joy ! those only 
can 
From slavery and religion's laby- 
rinth caves 
Guide us, as one clear star the sea- 
man saves. 
To give to all an equal share of good. 
To track the steps of Freedom, 
though through gi'aves 
She pass, to suffer all in patient 

mood. 
To weep for crime, though stained 
with thy friend's dearest blood,— 



114 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XII. 

" ' To feel the peace of self-content 
ment's lot, 
To own all sympathies, and outrage 
none, 
And in the inmost bowers of sense 
and thought, 
Until life's sunny day is quite gone 

down, 
To sit and smile with Joy, or, not 
alone. 
To kiss salt tears from the worn 
cheek of Woe ; 
To live as if to love and live were 
one ;— 
This is not faith or law, nor those 
who bow 
To thrones on Heaven or Earth such 
destiny may know. 



XIII. 

" • But children near their parents 
tremble now, 
Because they must obey— one rules 
another, 
And, as one Power rules both high 
and low, 
So man is made the captive of his 

brother, 
And Hate is throned on high with 
Fear his mother, 
Above the Highest— and those foun- 

i'flill-CGllS 

Whence love yet flowed when faith 
had choked all other 
Are darkened— Woman as the bond- 
slave dwells 
Of man, a slave ; and life is poisoned 
in its wells. 



XIV. 

" ♦ Man seeks for gold in mines, that 
he may weave 
A lasting chain for his own slav- 
ery ;— 
In fear and restless care that he may 
live, 
He toils for others, who must ever 

be 
The joyless thralls of like captivity; 
He murders, for his chief delight 's in 
ruin ; 
He builds the altar, that its idol's 
fee 
May be his very blood ; he is pursu- 
ing— 
Oh, blind and willing wretch !— his 
own obscure undoing. 



XV. 

" ' Woman !— she is his slave, she has 
become 
A thing I weep to speak— the child 
of scorn, 
The outcast of a desolated home ; 
Falsehood and fear and toil like 

waves have worn 
Channels upon her cheek, which 
smiles adorn 
As calm decks the false ocean :— well 
ye know 
What Woman is, for none of 
Woman born 
Can choose but drain the bitter dregs 
of woe. 
Which ever from the oppressed to the 
oppressors flow. 



XVI. 

'• ' This need not be ; ye might arise' 
and will 
That gold should lose its power, and 
thrones their glory ; 
That love, which none may bind, be 
free to fill 
The world, like light ; and evil 

faith, grown hoary 
With crime, be quencht and die.— 
Yon promontory 
Even now eclipses the descending 
moon !— 
Dungeons and palaces are transi- 
tory- 
High temples fade like vapor— Man 
alone 
Remains, whose will has power when 
all beside is gone. 



XVII. 

" ' Let all be free and equal !— From 
your hearts 
I feel an echo ; through my inmost 
frame, 
Like sweetest sound, seeking its 
mate, it darts. — 
Whence come ye, friends ? Alas, 

I cannot name 
All that I read of sorrow, toil, and 
shame, 
On your worn faces ; as in legends 
old 
Which make immortal the disas- 
trous fame 
Of conquerors and impostors false 
and bold, 
The discord of your hearts I m your 
looks behold. 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Ui 



XVIII. 

" ' Wheuce come ye, friends ? from 
pouring human blood 
Forth on the earth ? Or bring ye 
steel and gold, 
That kings may dupe and slay the 
multitude ? 
Or from the famished poor, pale, 

weak, and cold. 
Bear ye the earnings of their toil ? 
unfold ! 
Speak ! Are your hands in slaugh- 
ter's sanguine hue 
Stained freshly ? have your hearts 
in guile grown old ? 
Know yourselves thus ! j'e shall be 
pure as dew. 
And I will be a friend and sister unto 
you. 

XIX. 

*' ' Disguise it not — we have one hu- 
man heart — 
All mortal thoughts confess a com- 
mon home : 
Blush not for what may to thyself 
impart 
Stains of inevitable crime : the 

doom 
Is this which has, or may, or must, 
become 
Thine, and all humankind's. Ye are 
the spoil 
Which Time thus marks for the 
devouring tomb, 
Thou and tliy thoughts, and they, 
and all the toil 
Wherewith ye twine the rings of life's 
perpetual coil. 



" ' Disguise it not— ye blush for what 
ye hate, 
And Enmity is sister unto Shame : 
Look on your mind— it is the book of 
fate— 
Ah ! it is dark with many a bla- 
zoned name 
Of misery — all our mirrors of the 
same ; 
But the dark fiend who with his iron 
pen. 
Dipt in scorn's fiery poison makes 
his fame 
Enduring there, would o'er the heads 
of men 
Pass harmless, if they scorned to make 
thoir liearts hi.s den. 



XXI. 

" ' Yes, it is Hate— that shapeless 
fiendly thing 
Of many names, all evil, some 
divine — 
Whom self-contempt arms with a 
mortal sting ; 
Which, when the heart its snaky 

folds entwine 
Is wasted quite, and when it doth 
repine 
To gorge such bitter prey, on all be- 
side 
It turns with ninefold rage, as, 
with its twine 
When amphisbaena some fair bird 
has tied. 
Soon o'er the putrid mass he threats on 
every side. 



XXII. 

" ' Reproach not thine own soul, but 
know thyself. 
Nor hate another's crime, nor 
loathe thine own. 
It is the dark idolatry of self 
Which, when our thoughts and 

actions once are gone, 
Demands that man should weep 
and bleed and groan ; 
Oh vacant expiation ! Be at rest. — 
The past is Death's, the future is 
thine own ; 
And love and joy can make the foul- 
est breast 
A paradise of flowers where peace 
might build her nest. 



" 'Speak thou ! whence come ye ?'— 
A Youth made reply : 
' Wearily, wearily o'er the bound- 
less deep 
We sail ;— thou readest well the mis- 
ery 
Told in these faded eyes, but much 

doth sleep 
Within, which there the poor heart 
loves to keep, 
Or dare not write on the dishonored 
brow ; 
Even from our childhood have we 
learned to steep 
The bc-ead of slavery in the tears of 
woe, 
And never dreamed of hope or refuge 
until novr. 



116 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XXIV. 

"'Yes— 1 must speak— my secret 
should have perisht 
Even with the heart it wasted, as 
a brand 
Fades in the dying flame whose life 
it cherisht, 
But that no human bosom can with 

stand 
Thee, wondrous Lady, and the mild 
command 
Of thy keen eyes : — yes, we are 
wretched slaves. 
Who from their wonted loves and 

native land 
Are reft, and bear o'er the dividing 
waves 
The unregarded prey of calm and 
happy graves. 



" ' We drag afar from pastoral vales 
the fairest 
Among the daughters of those 
mountains lone, 
We drag them there where all things 
best and rarest 
Are stained and trampled :— years 

have come and gone 
Since, like the ship which bears me, 
I have known 
No thought ; — but now the eyes of 
one dear Maid 
On mine with light of mutual love 
have shone : 
She is my life,— I am but as the shade 
Of her— a smoke sent up from ashes, 
soon to fade. 



XXVI. 

"'For she must perish in the Ty- 
rant's hall — 
Alas, alas ! ' — He ceased, and by 
the sail 
Sate cowering — but his sobs were 
heard by all. 
And still before the ocean and the 

gale 
The ship fled fast till the stars 'gan 
to fail : 
And, round me gathered with mute 
countenance. 
The seamen gazed, the pilot worn 
and pale 
With toil, the captain with gray 
locks, whose glance 
Met mine in restless awe — they stood 
as in a trance. 



xxvn. 

" ' Recede not ! pause not now 1 
Thou art grown old, 
But Hope will make thee young, 
for Hope and Youth 
Are children of one mother, even 
Love— behold ! 
The eternal stars gaze on us !— is 

the truth 
Within your soul ? care for your 
own, or ruth 
For other's sufferings ? do ye thirst 
to bear 
A heart which not the serpent 
Custom's tooth 
May violate ?— Be free ! and even 
here 
Swear to be firm till death !' They 
cried ' We swear ! We swear ! ' 



xxviii. 

" The very darkness shook, as with a 
a blast 
Of subterranean thunder, at the 
cry; 
The hollow shore its thousand echoes 
cast 
Into the night, as if the sea and sky 
And earth rejoiced with new-born 
liberty. 
For in that name they swore ! Bolts 
were undrawn. 
And on the deck, with unaccus- 
tomed eye, 
The captives gazing stood, and every 
one 
Shrank as the inconstant torch upon 
her countenance shone. 

XXIX. 

" They were earth's purest children, 
young and fair. 
With eyes the shrines of unawak 
ened thought, 
And brows as bright as Spring or 
morning, ere 
Dark time had there its evil legend 

wrought 
In characters of cloud which wither 
not. — 
The change was like a dream to 
them ; but soon 
They knew the glory of their 
altered lot, 
In the bright wisdom of youth's 
breathless noon. 
Sweet talk and smiles and sighs all 
bosoms did attune. 



THE REVOLT OP ISLAM. 



117 



" But one was mute;; her cheeks and 
lips most fair, 
Changing their hue like lilies newly 
blown 
Beneath a bright acacia's shadowy 
hair 
Waved by the wind amid the sunny 

noon, 
Showed that her soul was quiver- 
ing ; and full soon 
That Youth arose, and breathlessly 
did look 
On her and me, as for some speech- 
less boon : 
I smiled, and both their hands in mine 
I took, 
And felt a soft delight from what their 
spirits shook. 

CANTO IX. 

I. 

" That night we anchored in a woody 
bay. 
And sleep no more around us dared 
to hover 
Than, when all doubt and fear has 
passed away, 
It shades the couch of some unrest- 
ing lover 
Whose heart is now at rest : thus 
night pissed over 
In mutual joy :— around, a forest 
grew 
Of poplars and dark oaks, whose 
shade did cover 
The waning stars prankt in the 
waters blue, 
And trembled in the wind which from 
the morning flew. 

II. 

"The joyous mariners and each free 
maiden 
Now brought from the deep forest 
many a bough. 
With woodland spoil most innocently 
laden ; 
Soon wreaths of budding foliage 

seemed to flow 
Over the mast and sails, the stern 
and prow 
Were canopied with blooming 
boughs,— the while 
On the slant sun's path o'er the 
waves we go 
Rejoicing, like the dwellers of an isle 
Doomed to pursue those waves that 
cannot cease to smile. 



" The many ships spotting the dark- 
blue deep 
With snowy sails fled fast as ours 
came nigh. 
In fear and wonder ; and on every 
steep 
Thousands did gaze ; they hean) 

the startling cry, 
Like Earth's own voice lifted un- 
conquerably 
To all her children, the unbounded 
mirth, 
The glorious joy of thy name — 
Liberty ! 
They heard !— As o'er the mountains 
of the earth 
From peak to peak leap on the beams 
of morning's birth : 



" So from that cry over the bound- 
less hills 
Sudden was caught one universal 
sound, 
Like a volcano's voice whose thunder 
fills 
Remotest skies,— such glorious 

madness found 
A path through human hearts with 
stream which drowned 
Its struggling fears and cares, dark 
Custom's brood ; 
They knew not whence it came, 
but felt around 
A wide contagion poured— they 
called aloud 
On Liberty- -that name lived on the 
sunny flood. 



We reached the port.— Alas ! from 
many spirits 
The wisdom which had waked that 
cry was fled, 
Like the brief glory which dark 
Heaven inherits 
From the false dawn, which fades 

ere it is spread. 
Upon the night's devouring dark- 
ness shed : 
Yet soon bright day will burst— even 
like a chasm 
Of fire, to burn the shrouds out- 
worn and dead 
Which wrapt the world ; a wide en- 
thusiasm, 
To cleanse the fevered world as with 
an earthquake's spasm ! 



118 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



VI. 

" I walkt through the great City then, 
but free 
From shame or fear ; those toil- 
worn mariners 
And happy maidens did encompass 
me ; 
And, like a subterranean wind that 

stirs 
Some forest;among caves, the liopes 
and fears 
From every human soul a murmur 
strange' 
Made as I past : and many wept, 
with tears 
Of joy and awe, and winged thoughts 
did range, 
And half-extinguished words which 
prophesied of change. 

VII. 

" For with strong speech I tore the 
veil that hid 
Nature, and Truth, and Liberty, 
and Love, — 
As one who from some mountain's 
pyramid 
Points to the unrisen sun ! — the 

shades approve 
His truth, and flee from every 
stream and grove. 
Thus, gentle thoughts did many a 
bosom fill, — 
Wisdom the mail of tried affections 
wove 
For many a heart, and tameless 
scorn of ill 
Thrice steept in molten steel the un- 
conquerable will. 



" Some said I was a maniac wild and 
lost ; 
Some, that I scarce had risen from 
the grave. 
The Prophet's virgin bride, a 
heavenly ghost :— 
Some said I was a fiend from my 

weird cave. 
Who had stolen human shape, and 
o'er the wave. 
The forest, and the mountains, came; 
—some said 
I was the child of God, sent down 
to save 
Women from bonds and death, and 
on my head 
The burden of their sins would fright- 
fully be laid. 



'• But soon my human words found 
sympathy 
In human hearts : the purest and 
the best, 
As friend with friend, made common 
cause with me, 
And they were few, but resolute ; 

—the rest, 
Ere yet success the enterprise had 
blest. 
Leagued with me in their hearts : — 
their meals, their slumber. 
Their hourly occupations, were pos- 
sest 
By hopes which I had armed to over- 
number 
Those hosts of meaner cares which 
life's strong wings encumber. 



" But chiefly women, whom my voice 
did waken 
From their cold, careless, willing 
slavery. 
Sought me : one truth their di*eary 
prison has shaken, 
They lookt around, and lo ! they 

became free ! 
Their many tyrants, sitting deso- 
lately 
In slave-deserted halls, could none 
restrain ; 
For wrath's red fire had withered 
in the eye 
Whose lightning once was death, — 
nor fear nor gain 
Could tempt one captive now to lock 
another's chain. 

XI. 

"Those who were sent to bind me 
wept, and felt 
Their minds outsoar the bonds 
which claspt them round. 
Even as a waxen shape may waste 
and melt 
In the white furnace ; and a 

visioned swound, 
A pause of hope and awe, the City 
bound, 
AVhich, like the silence of a tempest's 
birth. 
When in its awful shadow it has 
wound 
The sun, the wind, the ocean, and 
the earth, 
Hung terrible, ere yet the lightnings 
have leapt forth. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



119 



XII. 

"Like clouds inwoven in the silent 

sky 

By winds from distant regions 

meeting there, 

In the hiffh name of truth and liberty 

Around the City millions gathered 

were 
By hopes which sprang from manj^ 
a hidden lair, 
Words which the lore of truth in hues 
of flame 
Arrayed, thine own wild songs 
which in the air 
Like homeless odors floated, and the 
name 
Of thee, and many a tongue which thou 
hadst dipt in flame. 



"The Tyrant knew his power was 
gone, but Feai', 
The nurse of Vengeance, bade him 
wait the event- 
That perfidy and custom, gold and 
prayer. 
And whatsoe'er, when force is im- 
potent. 
To Fraud the sceptre of the world 
has lent. 
Might, as he judged, confirm his fail- 
ing sway. 
Therefore throughout the streets 
the priests he sent 
To curse the rebels. To their gods 
did they 
For Earthquake, Plague, and Want, 
kneel in the public way. 



"And grave and hoary men were 
bribed to tell. 
From seats where law is made the 
slave of wrong, 
How glorious Athens in her solendor 
fell 
Because her sons were free,— and 

that, among 
Mankind, the many to the few be- 
long, 
Bj' Heaven, and Nature, and Neces- 
sity. 
They said that age was truth, and 
that the young 
Marred withwild hopes the peace of 
slavery. 
With which old times and men had 
quelled the vain and free. 



XV. 

" And with the falsehood of their 
poisonous lips 
They breathed on the enduring 
memory 
Of sages and of bards a brief eclipse; 
There was one teacher, who neces- 
sity 
Had armed with strength and 
wrong against mankind. 
His slave and his avenger aye to be; 
That we were weak and sinful, 
frail and blind. 
And that the will of one was peace, 
and we 
Should seek for naught on earth but 
toil and misery. 



XVI. 

" ' For thus we might avoid the hell 
hereafter.' 
So spake the hypocrites, who curst 
and lied ; 
Alas ! their sway was past, and tears 
and laughter 
Clung to their hoary hair, wither- 
ing the pride 
Which in their hollow hearts dared 
still abide ; 
And yet obscener slaves with 
smoother brow. 
And sneers on their strait lips, 
thin, blue, and wide. 
Said that the rule of men was over 
now. 
And hence the subject world to wo- 
man's will must bow. 



XVII. 

" And gold was scattered through 
the streets, and wine 
Flowed at a hundred feasts within 
the wall. 
In vain ! the steady towers in Hea- 
ven did «liine 
As they were wont, nor at the 

priestly call 
Left Plague her banquet in the 
Ethiop's hall, 
Nor Famine from the rich man's portal 
came. 
Where at her ease she ever preys 
on all 
Who throng to kneel for food : uur 
fear nor shame 
Nor faith, nor discord, dimmed hope's 
newly kindled flame. 



120 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



" For gold was as a god whose faith 
began 
To fade, so that its worshippers 
were few ; 
And Faith itself, which in the heart 

of man 
Gives shape, voice, name, to spectral 
Terror, knew 
Its downfall, as the altars lonelier 
grew, 
Till the priests stood alone within the 
fane ; 
The shafts of Falsehood impollut- 
ing flew. 
And the cold sneers of Calumny were 
vain 
The union of the free with Discord's 
brand to stain. 

XIX. 

" The rest thou knowest.— Lo ! we 
two are here — 
We have survived a ruin wide and 
deep- 
Strange thoughts are mine.— I can- 
not grieve or fear ; 
Sitting with thee upon this lonely 

steep, 
I smile, though human love should 
make me weep. 
We have survived a joy that knows 
no sorrow, 
And I do feel a mighty calmness 
creep 
Over my heart, which can no longer 
borrow 
Its hues from chance or change, dark 
children of to-morrow. 

XX 

' ' We know not what will come- 
yet, Laon, dearest, 
Cythna shall be the prophetess of 
Love ; 
Her lips shall rob thee of the grace 
thou wcarest. 
To hide thy heart, and clothe the 

shapes which rove 
Within the homeless Future's win- 
try grove ; 
For I now, sitting thus beside thee, 
seem 
Even with thy breath and blood to 
live and move, 
And violence and wrong are as a 
dream 
Which rolls from steadfast truth, an 
unreturning stream. 



"The blasts of Autumn drive the 
winged seeds 
Over the earth,— next come the 
snows, and rain. 
And frosts, and storms, which dreary 
Winter leads 
Out of his Scythian cave, a savage 

train ; 
Behold ! Spring .sweeps over the 
world again, 
Shedding soft dews from her ethereal 
wings : 
Flowers on the mountains, fruits ^ 
over the plain. 
And music on the waves and woods, 
she flings. 
And love on all that lives, and calm on 
lifeless things. 



"O Spring, of hope and love and 
youth and gladness 
Wind-winged emblem ! brightest, 
best, and fairest ! 
Whence comest thou when with dark 
Winter's sadness 
The tears that fade in sunny smiles 

thou sharest ? 
Sister of joy 1 thou art the child ,j 
who wearest 
Thy mother's dying smile, tender and 
sweet ; 
Thy mother Autumn, for whose 
grave thou bearest 
Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, 
with gentle feet 
Disturbing not the leaves which arSj 
her winding-sheet. 

XXIII. 

" Virtue and Hope and Love, like"' 
light and Heaven, 
Surround the world. We are their 
chosen slaves. 
Has not the whirlwind of our spirit 
driven 
Truth's deathless germs to 

Thought's remotest caves ? 
Lo, Winter comes !— the grief of 
many graves, 
The frost of death, the tempest of the 
sword. 
The flood of tyranny, whose san- 
guine waves 
Stagnate like ice at Faith the en- 
chanters word, 
And bind all human hearts in its repose 
abhorred ! 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



1J21 



" The seeds are sleeping in the soil. 
Metinwhile 
The Tyrant peoples dungeons with 
his prey, 
Pale victinis on the guarded scaffold 
smile 
Because they cannot speak ; and, 

day by day, 
The moon of wasting Science wanes 
away 
Among her stars, and in that dark- 
ness vast 
The sons of earth to their foul idols 
pray, 
And gray priests triumph, and like 
blight or blast 
A shade of selfish care o'er human looks 
is cast. 

XXV. 

" This is the winter of the world ; — 

and here 

"We die, even as the winds of 

Autumn fade, 

Expiring in the f rore and foggy air. — 

Behold ! Spring comes, though we 

must pass who made 
The promise of its birth, even as 
the shade 
Which from our death, as from a 
mountain, flings 
The future, a broad sunrise ; thus 
arrayed 
As with the plumes of overshadowing 
wings. 
From its dark gulf of chains Earth like 
an eagle springs. 



XXVI. 

" deai'est love ! we shall be dead 
and cold 
Before this morn may on the world 
arise : 
Wouldst thou the glory of its dawn 
behold ? 
Alas ! gaze not on me, but turn 

thine eyes 
On thine own heart— it is a para- 
dise 
Which everlasting Spring has made 
its own. 
And, while drear winter fills the 
naked skies, 
Sweet streams of sunny thought, and 
flowers fresh blown. 
Are there, and weave their sounds and 
odors into one. 



'•In their own hearts the earnest of 
the hope 
Which made them great the good 
will ever find ; 
And, though some envious shades 
may interlope 
Between the effect and it, One 

comes behind 
Who aye the future to the past will 
bind — 
Necessity, whose sightless strength 
for ever 
Evil with evil, good with good, 
must wind 
In bands of union which no power 
may sever : 
They must bring forth their kind, and 
be divided never ! 



"The good, and mighty of depaHed 
ages. 
Are in their graves, the innocent 
and free, 
Heroes, and Poets, and prevailing 
Sages, 
Who leave the vesture of their 

majesty 
To adorn and clothe this naked 
world ;— and we 
Are like to them— such perish, but 
they leave 
All hope, or love, or truth, or liberty 
Whose forms their mighty spirits 
could conceive. 
To be a rule and law to ages that sur- 
vive. 



XXIX. 

" So be the turf heapt over our re- 
mains 
Even in our happy youth, and that 
strange lot, 
Whate'er it be, when in these min- 
gling veins 
The blood is still, be ours ; let sense 

and thought 
Pass from our being, or be num- 
bered not 
Among the things that are ; let those 
who come 
Behind, for whom our steadfast will 
has bought 
A calm inheritance, a glorious doom. 
Insult with careless tread our undivided 
tomb. 



122 



THE KBVOLT OF ISLAM. 



" Our many thoughts and deeds, our 
life and love, 
Our happiness, and all that we have 
been, 
Immortally must live and burn and 
move 
When we shall be no more ; — the 

world has seen 
A type of peace ; and — as some 
most serene 
And lovely spot to a poor maniac's 
6ye, 
After long years, some sweet and 
moving scene 
Of youthful hope, returning sud- 
denly, 
Quells his long madness— thus man 
shall remember thee. 



"And Calumny meanwhile shall 

feed on us 

As worms devour the dead, and 

near the throne 

And at the altar most accepted thus 

Shall sneers and curses be ; — what 

we have done 
None shall dare vouch, though it 
be truly known ; 
That record shall remain when they 
must pass 
Who built their pride on its obliv- 
ion, 
And fame, in human hope which 
sculptured was. 
Survive the perished scrolls of unen- 
during brass. 



"The while we two, beloved, must 
depart, 
And Sense and Reason, those en- 
chanters fair 
Whose wand of power is hope, would 
bid the heart 
That gazed beyond the wormy 

gi'ave despair : 
These eyes, these lips, this blood, 
seem darkly there 
To fade in hideous ruin ; no calm 
sleep, 
Peopling with golden dreams the 
stagnant air, 
Seems our obscure and rotting eyes 
to steep 
In joy :— but senseless death— a ruin 
dark and deep ! 



XXSIII. 

" These are blind fancies— reason 
cannot know 
What sense can neither feel nor 
thought conceive ; 
There is delusion in the world, and 
woe. 
And fear, and pain— we know not 

whence we live, 
Or why, or how, or what mute 
Power may give 
Their being to each plant and star 
and beast, 
Or even these thoughts. — Come 
near me ! I do weave 
A chain I cannot break — I am pos- 
sest 
With thoughts too swift and strong for 
one lone human breast. 

XXXIV. 

"Yes, yes— thy kiss is sweet, thy 
lips are warm — 
Oh, willingly, beloved, would these 
eyes. 
Might they no more drink being 

from thy form. 
Even as to sleep whence we again 
arise, 
Close their faint orbs in death : I 
fear nor prize 
Aught that can now betide, unshared 
by thee— 
Yes, Love, when Wisdom fails, 
makes Cythna wise ; 
Darkness and death, if death be true, 
must be 
Dearer than life and hope if unen- 
joyed with thee. 

XXXV. 

" Alas, our thoughts flow on with 
stream whose waters 
Return not to their fountain : 
Earth and Heaven, 
The Ocean and the Sun, the Clouds 
their daughters, 
Winter and Spring, and Morn and 

Noon and Even, 
All that we are or know, is darkly 
driven 
Towards one gulf. — Lo ! what a 
change is come 
Since I first spake — but time shall*' 
be forgiven 
Though it change all but thee I " 
She ceased— night's gloom 
Meanwhile had fallen on earth from 
the sky's sunless dome. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAil. 



133 



XXXVI. 

Thongrh she had ceased, her counte- 
nance, uplifted 
To Heaven, still spake, with solemn 
glory bright ; 
Her dark deep eyes, her lips whose 
motions gifted 
The air they breathed with love, 

her locks undight. 
" Fair star of life and love," I cried, 
•'my soul's delight. 
Why lookest thou on the crystalline 
skies ? 
Oh, that my spirit were j'on Hea- 
ven of night 
"Which gazes on thee with its thou- 
sand eyes ! " 
She turned 'to me and smiled — that 
smile was Pai-adise ! 

CANTO X. 

I. 

"Was there a human spirit in the 
steed, 
That thus with his proud voice, ere 
night was gone. 
He broke our linked rest ? or do in- 
deed 
All living things a common nature 

own. 
And thought erect an universal 
throne, 
"Where many shapes one tribute ever 
bear ? 
And Earth, their mutual mother, 
does she groan 
To see her sons contend ? and makes 
she bare 
tier breast, that all in peace its drain- 
less stores may share ? 



I have heard friendly sounds from 
many a tongue 
Which was not human— the lone 
nightingale 
las answered me with her most sooth- 
ing song 
Out of her ivy bower, when I sate 

pale 
With gi-ief, and sighed beneath ; 
from many <a dale 
The antelopes who flockt for food 
have spoken 
With happy sounds and motions 
that avail 
Like man's own speech : and such 
was now the token 
)f waning night, whose calm by that 
proud neigh was broken. 



III. 

Each night, that mighty steed bore 
me abroad. 
And I returned with food to our 
retreat, 
And dark intelligence ; the blood 
which flowed 
Over the fields had stained the 

courser's feet ; 
Soon the dust drinks that bitter 
dew, — then meet 
The vulture and the wild dog and 
the snake. 
The wolf and the hyena gray, and 
eat 
The dead in horrid truce : their 
throngs did make, 
Behind the steed, a chasm like waves 
in a ship's wake. 



IV. 



For from the utmost realms of earth 
came pouring 
The banded slaves whom every 
despot sent 
At that throned traitor's summons ; 
like the roaring 
Of fire, whose floods the wild deer 

circumvent 
In the scorcht pastures of the 
south. 
The armies of the leagued kings 
around 
Their files of steel and flame ;— the 
continent 
Trembled, as with a zone of ruin 
bound, 
Beneath their feet, the sea shook with 
their navies' sound. 



From every nation of the earth they 
came. 
The multitude of moving heartless 
things 
Whom slaves call men : obediently 
they came, 
Like sheep whom from the fold the 

shepherd brings 
To the stall, red with blood ; their 
many kings 
Led them thus erring from their 
native land,— 
Tartar and Frank, and millions 
whom the wings 
Of Indian breezes lull, and many a 
band 
The Arctic Anarch sent, and Idumea's 
sand, 



124 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Fertile in prodigies and lies. — So 
there 
Strange natures made a brother- 
hood of ill. 
The desert savage ceased to grasp in 
fear 
His Asian sliield and bow when, at 

the will 
Of Europe's subtler son, the bolt 
would kill 
Some shepherd sitting on a rock se- 
cure ; 
But smiles of wondering joy his 
face would fill, 
And savage sympathy : those slaves 
impure 
Each one the other thus from ill to ill 
did lure. 

VII. 

For traitorously did that foul Tyrant 
robe 
His countenance in lies,— even at 
the hour 
When he was snatcht from death, 
then o'er the globe. 
With secret signs from many a 

mountain-tower. 
With smoke by day and fire by 
night the power 
Of kings and priests, those dark con- 
spirators. 
He called : — they knew his cause 
their own, and swore 
Like wolves and serpents to their 
mutual wars 
Strange truce, with many a rite which 
Earth and Heaven abhors. 

VIII. 

Mj'^riads had come — millions were on 
their way ; 
The Tyrant past, surrounded by 
the steel 
Of hired assassins, through the pub- 
lic way, 
Chokt with his country's dead ; — 

his footsteps reel 
On the fresh blood — he smiles. 
" Ay, now I feel 
I am a king in truth ! " he said, and 
took 
His royal seat, and bade the tortur- 
ing wheel 
Be brought, and fire, and pincers, 
and the hook. 
And scorpions, that his soul on its re- 
venge might look. 



IX. 

" But first go slay the rebels— why 
return 
The victor bands 'f " he said. "Mil- 
lions yet live, 
Of whom the weakest with one word 
might turn 
The scales of victory yet ; let none 

survive 
But those within the walls — each 
fifth shall give 
The expiation for his brethren, 
here.— 
Go forth, and waste and kill."— 
' ' O king, forgive 
My speech," a soldier answered ; 
"but we fear 
The spirits of the night, and morn is 
drawing near ; 



"For we were slaying still without 
remorse. 
And now that dreadful chief be- 
neath my hand 
Defenceless lay, when on a hell-black 
hor.se 
An Angel bright as day, waving a 

brand 
Which flasht among the stars, 
past."—" Dost thou stand 
Parleying with me, thou wretch ? " ' 
the king replied. 
"Slaves, bind him to the wheel;; 
and of this band 
Whoso will drag that woman to his ^ 
side 
That scared him thus may burn hig- 
dearest foe beside ; 

XI. 

" And gold and glory shall be his.— 
Go forth ! " 
They rusht into the plain. — Loud 
was the roar 
Of their career : the horseman shook ; 
the earth ; 
The wheeled artillery's speed the 

pavement tore ; 
The infantry, file after file, didl: 
pour 
Their clouds on the utmost hills. 
Five days they slew 
Among the wasted fields ; the sixth i 
saw gore 
Stream through the city ; on the 
seventh the dew 
Of slaughter became stiff, and there 
was peace anew : 



THE ItEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



12L 



XII. 

Peace in the desert fields and vil- 
lages, 

Between the glutted beasts and 
mangled dead ! 
Peace in the silent streets ! save 
when the cries 
Of victims, to their fiery judgment 

led, 
Made pale their voiceless lips who 
seemed to dread. 
Even in their dearest kindred, lest 
some tongue 
Be faithless to the fear yet unbe- 
trayed : 
Peace in the Tyrant's palace, where 
the throng 
Waste the triumphal hours in festival 
and song ! 

xin. 

Day after day the burning sun rolled 
on 
Over the death-polluted land— it 
came 
Out of the east like fire, and fiercely 
shone 
A lamp of autumn, ripening with 

its flame 
The few lone ears of corn ; — the 
sky became 
Stagnate with heat, so that each 
cloud and blast 
Languisht and died,— the thirsting 
air did claim 
All moisture, and a rotting vapor 
past 
From the unburied dead, invisible and 
fast. 

XIV. 

First Want, then Plague, came on 
the beasts ; their food 
Failed, and they drew the breath 
of its decay. 
Millions on millions, whom the scent 
of blood 
Had lured, or who from regions far 

away 
Had tracked the hosts in festival 
array, 
From their dark deserts, gaunt and 
wasting now, 
Stalkt like fell shades among their 
perisht prey ; 
In their green eyes a strange disease 
did glow. 
They sank in hideous spasm, or pains 
severe and slow. 



The fish were poisoned in the 
streams ; the birds 
In the green Avoods perisht ; the 
insect race 
Was withered up ; the scattered 
flocks and herds 
Who had survived the wild beasts' 

hungry chase 
Died moaning, each upon tlie 
other's face 
111 helpless agony gazing ; round the 
City 
All night the lean hyenas their sad 
case 
Like starving infants wailed— a woe- 
ful ditty ! 
And many a mother wept, pierced with 
unnatural pity. 



XVI. 

Amid the aerial minarets on high 
The Ethiopian vultures fluttering 
fell 
From their long line of brethren in 
the sky, 
Startling the concourse of man- 
kind. — Too well 
These signs the coming mischief 
did foretell : — 
Strange panic first, a deep and sick- 
ening dread, 
Within each heart, like ice, did 
sink and dwell, 
A voiceless thought of evil, which 
did spread 
With the quick glance of eyes, like 
withering lightnings shed. 

XVII. 

Day after day, when the year wanes, 
the frosts 
Strip its green crown of leaves, till 
all is bare ; 
So on those strange and congregated 
hosts 
Came Famine, a swift shadow, and 

the air 
Groaned with the burden of a new 
despair ; 
Famine, than whom Misrule no dead- 
lier daughter 
Feeds from her thousand breasts, 
though .sleeping there 
With lidless eyes lie Faith and 
Plague and Slaughter, 
A ghastly brood conceived of Lethe's 
sullen water. 



136 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



There was no food ; the corn was 
trampled down, 
The flocks and herds had perisht ; 
on the shore 
The dead and putrid fish were ever 
thrown : 
The deeps were foodless, and the 

whids no more 
Creaked with the weight of birds, 
but, as before 
Those winged things sprang forth, 
were void of shade ; 
The vines and orchards, Autumn's 
golden store, 
Wert' burn I'd ; so that the meanest 
food was weighed 
With gold, and Avarice died before 
the god it made. 

XIX. 

There was no corn — in the wide 
market-place 
All loathliest things, even human 
flesh, was sold ; 
They weighed it in small scales— and 
many a face 
Was fixt in eager horror then ; his 

gold 
The miser brought ; the tender 
maid, grown bold 
Through hunger, bared her scorned 
charms in vain ; 
Tlie mother brought her eldest- 
born, controlled 
By instinct blind as love, but turned 
again, 
And bade her infant suck, and died in 
silent pain. 

XX. 

Then fell blue Plague upon the race 
of man. 
"Oh, for the sheathed steel, so 
late which gave 
Oblivion to the dead when the streets 
ran 
With brothers' blood ! Oh, that the 

earthquake's grave 
Would gape, or ocean lift its sti- 
fling wave ! " 
Vain cries— throughout the streets, 
thousands, pursued 
Each by his fiery torture, howl and 
rave. 
Or sit in frenzy's unimagined mood 
Upon fresh heaps of dead — a ghastly 
multitude. 



XXI. 

It was not hunger now, but thirst. 
Each well 
Was choked with rotting corpses, 
and became 
A caldron of green mist made visible ■ 
At sunrise. Thither still the myr- 
iads came. 
Seeking to quench the agony of ' 
the flame 
Which raged like poison through i 
their bursting veins ; 
Naked they were from torture, , 
without shame. 
Spotted with nameless scars and I 
lurid blains. 
Childhood, and youth, and age, writh- 
ing in savage pains. 



XXII. 

It was not thirst but madness ! ! 
Many saw 
Their own lean image everywhere ; ; 
it went 
A ghastlier self beside them, till the ■ 
awe 
Of that dread sight to self-destruc- • 

tion sent 
Those shrieking victims ; some, ere ' 
life was spent, 
Sought, with a horrid sympathy, to ' 
shed 
Contagion on the sound ; and ■ 
others rent 
Their matted hair, and cried aloud, 
" We tread 
On fire ! the avenging Power his hell ' 
on earth has spread ! " 

XXIII. 

Sometimes the living by the dead I ! 
were hid. 
Near the great fountain in the pub- 
lic square, 
Whei'e corpses made a crumbling' 
pyramid 
Under the sun, was heard one 

stifled prayer 
For life, in the hot silence of the 
air ; 
And strange 't was mid that hideous 
heap to see 
Some shrouded in their long and 
golden hair. 
As if not dead, but slumbering 
quietly. 
Like forms which sculptors carve, then < 
love to agony. 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



127 



XXIV. 

Famine had spared tlie palace of the 
Kingr :— 
He rioted in festival the while, 
He and his jjuards and priests ; but 
Plague did Hing 
One shadow upon all. Famine can 

.smile 
On him who brings it food, and 
pass, with guile 
Of thankful falsehood, like a courtier 
gray. 
The house-dog of the throne ; but 
many a mile 
Comes Plague, a winged wolf, who 
loathes alway 
The garbage and the scum that stran- 
gers make her prey. 



So, near the throne, amid the gor- 
geous feast, 
Sheathed in resplendent arms, or 
loosely dight 
To luxury, ere the mockery yet had 
ceast 
That lingered on his lips, the war- 
rior's might 
"Was loosened, and a new and 
ghastlier night 
In dreams of frenzv lapt his eyes; he 
fell 
Headlong, or with stiff eyeballs sate 
upright 
Among the guests, or raving mad 
did tell 
Strange truths, a dying seer of dark 
oppression's hell. 

XXVI. 

The Princes and the Priests were 
pale with terror ; 
That monstrous faith wherewith 
they ruled mankind 
Fell, like a shaft loosed by the bow- 
man's error. 
On their own hearts : they sought, 

and they could find 
No refuge— "t was the blind who 
led the bliml. 
So through the desolate streets to 
the high fane 
The many-tongued and endless 
armies wind 
In sad procession : each among the 
train 
To his own Idol lifts his supplicationa 
vain. 



"O God !" they cried, "we know 
our secret pride 
Has scorned llioe, tind thy worshij), 
and thy name ; 
Secure in human power, wo have de- 
filed 
Thy fearful might ; we bend in 

fear and shame 
Before thy presence ; with the dust 
we claim 
Kindred ; be merciful, O King of 
Heaven ! 
Most justly have we suffered for 
thy fame. 
Made dim, but be at length our sins 
forgiven. 
Ere to despair and death thy worship- 
pers be driven. 



"0 King of glory ! thou alone hast 
power ! 
Who can resist thy will ? who can 
restrain 
Thy wrath when on the guilty thou 
dost shower 
The shafts of thy revenge, a blis- 
tering rain ? 
Greatest and best, be merciful 
again ! 
Have we not stabbed thine enemies ? 
and made 
The Earth an altar, and the 
Heavens a fane. 
Where thou wert worshipt with their 
blood, and laid. 
Those hearts in dust which would th\- 
searchless works have weighed'? 



" Well didst thou loosen on this im- 
pious City 
Thine angels of revenge : recall 
them now ; 
Thy worshippers, abased, here kneel 
for pity, 
And bind their souls by an immor- 
tal vow : 
We swear by thee ! and to our oath 
do thou 
Give sanction from thine hell of 
fiends and flame, 
That we will kill with fire and tor- 
ments slow 
The last of those who mockt thy holy 
name. 
And scorned the sacred laws thy proph- 
ets did proclaim." 



128 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XXX. 

Thus they with trembling limbs and 
pallid lips 
Worshipt their own hearts' image, 
dim and vast, 
Scared by the shade wherewith they 
would eclipse 
The light of other minds ;— troubled 

they past 
P'rora the great Temple ;— fiercely 
still and fast 
The arrows of the plague among 
them fell, 
And they on one another gazed 
aghast. 
And through the hosts contention 
wild befel. 
As each of his own god the wondrous 
works did tell. 



And Oromaze, Joshua, and Mahomet, 

Moses and Buddh, Zerdusht and 

Brahm and Foh, 

A tumult of strange names, which 

never met 

Before as watchwords of a single 

woe. 
Arose ; each raging votary 'gan to 
throw 
Aloft his armed hands, and each did 
howl 
"Our God alone is God !"— And 
slaughter now 
Would have gone forth, when from 
beneath a cowl 
A voice came forth which pierced like 
ice through every soul. 

XXXII. 

'T was an Iberian priest from whom 
it came, 
A zealous man who led the legioned 
West, 
With words which faith and pride 
had steeped in flame, 
To quell the unbelievers ; a dire 

guest 
Even to hio friends was he, for in 
his breast 
Did hate and guile lie watchful, in- 
tertwined, 
Twin serpents in one deep and 
winding nest ; 
He loathed all faith beside his own, 
and pined 
To wreak his fear of Heaven in venge- 
ance on mankind. 



XXXIII. 

But more he loathed and hated the 
clear light 
Of wisdom and free thought, and 
more did fear 
Lest, kindled once, its beams might 
pierce the night. 
Even where his Idol stood ; for far 

and near 
Did many a heart in Europe leap 
to hear. 
That faith and tyranny were 
trampled down ; 
Many a pale victim doomed for 
truth to share 
The murderer's cell, or see with help- 
less groan 
The priests his children drag for slaves 
to serve their own. 



XXXIV. 

He dared not kill the infidels with 
fl.re 
Or steel, in Europe ; the slow 
agonies 
Of legal torture mockt his keen de- 
sire : 
So he made truce with those who 

did despise 
The expiation and the sacrifice, 
That, though detested, Islam's kin- 
dred creed 
Might crush for him those deadlier 
enemies ; 
For fear of God did in his bosom 
breed 
A jealous hate of man, an unreposing 
need. 



XXXV. 

" Peace, peace ! " he cried. " When 
we are dead, the day 
Of judgment comes, and all shall 
surely know 
Whose God is God, each fearfully 
shall pay 
The errors of his faith in endless 

woe ! 
But there is sent a mortal venge- 
ance now 
On earth, because an impious race 
had spurned 
Him whom we all adore,— a subtle 
foe. 
By whom for ye this dread reward 
was earned, 
And kingly thrones, which rest on 
faith, nigh overturned. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



129 



"Think ye, because ye weep and 
kneel and pray, 
That God will lull the pestilence ? 
It rose 
Even from beneath his throne, 
where many a day. 
His mercy soothed it to a dark re- 
pose : 
It walks upon the earth to judge 
his foes ; 
And what art thou and I, that he 
should deign 
To curb his ghastly minister, or 
close 
The gates of death ere they receive 
the twain 
Who shook with mortal spells his un- 
defended reign ? 

XXXVII. 

" Ay, there is famine in the gulf of 
hell, 
Its giant worms of fire for ever 
yawn, — 
Their lurid eyes are on us ! Those 
who fell 
By the swift shafts of pestilence 

ere dawn 
Are in their jaws ! They hunger 
for the spawn 
Of Satan, their own brethren who 
were sent 
To make our souls their spoil. 
See ! see ! they fawn 
Like dogs, and they will sleep, with 
luxury spent. 
When those detested hearts their iron 
fangs have rent ! 

XXXVIII. 

" Our God may then lull Pestilence 
to sleep : 
Pile high the pyre of expiation 
now, 
A forest's spoil of boughs, and on the 
heap 
Poor venomous gums, which sul- 
lenly and slow. 
When touched by flame, shall burn 
and melt and flow, 
A stream of clinging fire,— and fix 
on high 
A net of iron, and spread forth be- 
low 
A couch of snakes and scorpions, and 
the fry 
Of centipedes and worms, earth's hell- 
ish progeny. 

9 



" Let Laon and Laone on that pyre, 
Linkt tight with burning brass, 
perish !— then pray 
That, with this sacrifice, the wither- 
ing ire 
Of Heaven may be appeased." He 

ceased, and they 
A space stood silent, as far, far 
away 
The echoes of his voice among them 
died ; 
And he knelt down upon the dust. 
alway 
Muttering the curses of his speech- 
less pride. 
Whilst shame and fear and awe the 
armies did divide. 



XL. 

His voice was like a blast that burst 
the portal 
Of fabled hell ; and, as he spake, 
each one 
Saw gape beneath the chasms of fire 
immortal, 
And Heaven above seemed cloven, 

where, on a throne 
Girt round with storms and 
shadows, sate alone 
Their King and Judge.— Fear killed 
in every breast 
All natural pity then, a fear un- 
known 
Before, and, with an inward fire pos- 
sest, 
They raged like homeless beasts whom 
burning woods invest. 



'Twas morn.— At noon the public 
crier went forth. 
Proclaiming through the living and 
the dead, 
" The Monarch saith that his great 
empire's worth 
Is set on Laon and Laone's head : 
He who but one yet living here can 
lead. 
Or who the life from both their 
hearts can wring. 
Shall be the kingdom's heir— a glo- 
rious meed ! 
But he who both alive can hither 
bring 
The Princess shall espouse, and reign 
an equal King." 



130 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Ere night the pyre was piled, the 
net of iron 
Was spread above, the fearful 
couch below ; 
It overtopt the towers that did en- 
viron 
That spacious square, for Fear is 

never slow 
To build the thrones of Hate, her 
mate and foe, 
So she scourged forth the maniac 
multitude 
To rear this pyramid— tottering 
and slow. 
Plague-stricken, foodless, like lean 
herds pursued 
By gadflies, they have piled the heath 
and gums and wood. 

XLIII. 

Night came, a starless and a moon- 
less gloom. 
• Until the dawn, those hosts of 
many a nation 
Stood ro'uid tliat pile, as near one 
lover's tomb 
Two gentle sisters mourn their 

desolation : 
And in the silence of that expec- 
tation 
Was heard on high the reptiles' hiss- 
ing crawl — 
It was so deep— save when the 
devastation 
Of the swift pest, with fearful inter- 
val. 
Marking its path with shrieks, among 
the crowd would fall. 

XLIV. 

Morn came, — among those sleepless 
multitudes, 
Madness, and Fear, and Plague, 
and Famine, still 
Heapt corpse on corpse, as in au- 
tumnal woods 
The frosts of many a wind with 

dead leaves fill 
Earth's cold and sullen brooks ; in 
silence, still 
The pale survivors stood ; ere noon, 
the fear 
Of Hell became a panic, which did 
kill 
Like hunger or disease, with whis- 
pers drear. 
As "Hush ! hark ! Come they yet? 
Just Heaven ! thine hour is 



XLV. 

And priests rushed through their 
ranks, some counterfeiting 
The rage they did inspire, some 
mad indeed 
With their own lies ; they said their 
god was waiting 
To see his enemies writhe and burn 

and bleed, — 
And that, till then, the snakes of 
hell had need 
Of human souls :— three hundred 
furnaces 
Soon blazed through the wide Citj', 
where, with speed. 
Men brought their infidel kindred to 
appease 
God's wrath, and, while they burned, 
knelt round on quivering knees. 



The noontide sun was darkened with 
that smoke. 
The winds of eve disperst those 
ashes gray. 
The madness which these rites had 
lulled awoke 
Again at sunset.— Who shall dare 

to say 
The deeds which night and fear 
brought forth, or weigh 
In balance just the good and evil 
there ? 
He might man's deep and search- 
less heart display. 
And cast a light on those dim laby- 
rinths where 
Hope near imagined chasms is strug- 
gling with despair. 

XLVII. 

'T is said, a mother dragged thi'ee 
children then 
To those fierce flames which roast 
the eyes in the head, 
And laught and died ; and that un- 
holy men, 
Feasting like fiends upon the infidel 

dead. 
Looked from their meal, and saw 
an Angel tread 
The visible floor of heaven, and it 
was she ! 
And on that night one without 
doubt or dread 
Came to the fire and said, "Stop, I 
am he ! 
Kill me 1 "—They burned them both 
with hellish mockery. 



I 



THE KEVOLT OF ISLAM. 



131 



XLVIII. 

And one by one, that night, young 
maidens came. 
Beauteous and calm, like shapes 
of living stone 
Clothed in the light of dreams, and 
by the flame. 
Which shrank as overgorged, they 

laid them down, 
And sung a low sweet song, of 
which alone 
One word was heard, and that was 
Liberty ; 
And that some kist their marble 
feet, with moan 
Like love, and died ; and then that 
they did die 
With happy smiles, which sunk in 
white tranquillity. 

CANTO XI. 



She saw me not— she heard me not 
— alone 
Upon the mountain's dizzy brink 
she stood ; 
She spake not, breathed not, moved 
not — there was thrown 
Over her look the shadow of a mood 
Which only clothes the heart in 
solitude, 
A thought of voiceless depth ; — she 
stood alone ; 
Above, the heavens wei'e spread ;— 
below, the flood 
Was murmuring in its caves ; — the 
wind had blown 
Her hair apart, through which her eyes 
and forehead shone. 

ir. 

A cloud was hanging o'er the west- 
ern mountains ; 
Before its blue and moveless depth 
were flying 
Gray mists poured forth from the 
unresisting fountains 
Of darkness in the north :— the day 

was dying :— 
Sudden, the sun shone forth, its 
beams were lying 
Like boiling gold on ocean, strange 
to see, 
And on the shattered vapors which, 
defying 
The power of light in vain, tost 
restlessly 
[n the red Heaven, like wrecks in a 
tempestuous sea. 



It was a stream of living beams, 
whose bank 
On either side by the cloud's cleft 
was made ; 
And, where its chasms that flood of 
glory drank, 
Its waves gusht forth like fire, and, 

as if swayed 
By some mute tempest rolled on 
h cr ; the shade 
Of her bright image floated on the 
river 
Of liquid light, which then did end 
and fade— 
Her radiant shape upon its verge did 
shiver ; 
Aloft, her flowing hair like strings of 
flame did quiver. 



I stood beside her, but she saw me 
not— 
She lookt upon the sea, and skies, 
and earth ; 
Rapture and love and admiration 
wrought 
A passion deeper far than tears or 

mirth. 
Or speech or gesture, or whate'er 
has birth 
From common joy ; which with the 
speechless feeling 
That led her there united, and shot 
forth 
From her far eyes a liglit of deep re- 
vealing, 
All but her dearest self from my regard 
concealing. 



Her lips were parted, and the 
measured breath 
Was now heard there ; — her dark 
and intricate eyes. 
Orb within orb, deeper than sleep or 
death. 
Absorbed the glories of the burning 

skies, 
Which, mingling with her heart's 
deep ecstasies. 
Burst from her looks and gestures ; — 
and a light 
Of liquid tenderness, like love, did 
rise 
From her whole frame,— an atmos- 
phere which quite 
Arrayed her in its beams, tremulous 
and soft and bright. 



132 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



She would have claspt me to her glow- 
ing frame ; 
Those warm and odorous lips might 
soon have shed 
On mine the fragrance and the invisi- 
ble flame 
Which now the cold winds stole ;— 

she would have laid 
Upon my languid heart her dearest 
head ; 
I might have heard her voice, tender 
and sweet ; 
Her eyes, mingling with mine, 
might soon have fed 
My soul with their own joy.— One 
moment yet 
I gazed — we parted then, never again 
to meet ! 

vxi. 

Never but once to meet on Earth 
again ! 
She heard me as I fled— her eager 
tone 
Sunk on my heart, and almost wove 
a chain 
Around my will to link it with her 

own, 
So that my stern resolve was almost 
gone. 
•' I cannot reach thee ! whither dost 
thou fly ? 
My steps are faint. — Come back, 
thou dearest one- 
Return, ah me ! return ! '' The wind 
past by 
One which those accents died, faint, 
far, and lingeringly. 

VIII. 

Woe ! Woe ! that moonless mid- 
night — Want and Pest 
Were horrible, but one more fell 
doth rear, 
As in a hydra's swarming lair, its 
crest 
Eminent among those victims — 

even the Fear 
Of Hell : each girt by the hot at- 
mosphere 
Of his blind agony, like a scorpion 
stung 
By his own rage upon his burning 
bier 
Of circling coals of Are ; but still 
there clung 
One hope, like a keen sword on start- 
ing threads uphung : — 



Not death— death was no more refuge 
or rest ; 
Not life— it was despair to be !— 
not sleep, 
For fiends and chasms of fire had dis- 
possest 
All natural dreams ; to wake was 

not to weep, 
But to gaze, mad and pallid, at the 
leap 
To which the Future, like a snaky 
scourge. 
Or like some tyrant's eye which i 
aye doth keep 
Its withering beam upon its slaves, 
did urge 
Their steps :— they heard the roar of 
Hell's sulphureous surge. 



Each of that multitude, alone, and . 
lost j 

To sense of outward things, one'' 
hope yet knew ; 
As on a foam-girt crag some seaman 
tost 
Stares at the rising tide, or like the 

crew 
Whilst now the ship is splitting : 
through and through ; 
Each, if the tramp of a far steed was 
heard, jj 

Started from sick despair, or if fj 
there flew 
One murmur on the wind, or if some 
word, 
Which none can gather j^et, the distant ' 
crowd has stirred. 



AVhy became cheeks, wan with the 
kiss of death. 
Paler from hope ? they had sus- 
tained despair. 
Why watcht those myriads with sus- 
pended breath. 
Sleepless a second night ? They 

are not here. 
The victims, and hour by hour, a 
vision drear. 
Warm corpses fall upon the clay-cold 
dead ; 
And even in death their lips are 

writhed with fear. — 
The crowd is mute and moveless- 
overhead 
Silent Arcturus shines— "Ha 1 hear'st 
thou not the tread 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



133 



XII. 

" Of rushing feet ? laughter y the 
shout, the scream 
Of triumph not to be contained ? 
See ! hark ! 
They come, they come ! give way !'" 
Alas, ye deem 
Falsely — 't is but a crowd of ma- 
niacs stark, 
Driven, like a troop of spectres, 
through the dark 
From the chokt well, whence a 
bright death-tire sprung, 
A lurid earth -star which dropt 
many a spark 
From its blue train, and, spreading 
widely, clung 
Fo their wild hair, like mist the top- 
most pines among. 



And many, from the crowd collected 
there, 
Joined that strange dance in fear- 
ful sj'mpathies ; 
There was the silence of a long de- 
spair 
When the last echo of those terri- 
ble cries 
Came from a distant street, like 
agonies 
Stifled afar. — Before the Tyrant's 
throne 
All night his aged senate sate, their 
eyes 
In stony expectation fixt ; when one 
sudden before them stood, a Stranger 
and alone. 



Dark priests and haughty warriors 
gazed on him 
With baffled wonder, for a her- 
mit's vest 
Concealed his face ; but, when he 
spake, his tone. 
Ere yet the matter did their 

thoughts arrest, — 
Earnest, benignant, calm, as from 
a breast 
Void of all hate or terror — made 
them start ; 
For, as with gentle accents he ad- 
drest 
His speech to them, on each unwill- 
ing heart 
Jnusual awe did fall—a spirit-quelling 
dart. 



" Ye Princes of the Earth, ye sit 
aghast 
Amid the ruin which yourselves 
have made, 
Yes, Desolation heard your trumpet's 
blast. 
And sprang from sleep !— dark Ter- 
ror has obeyed 
Your bidding. Oh that I, whom 
ye have made 
Your foe, could set my dearest 
enemy free 
From pain and fear ! But evil 
casts a shade 
Which cannot pass so soon, and Hate 
must be 
The nurse and parent still of an ill pro- 
geny. 



XVI. 

" Ye turn to Heaven for aid in your 
distress ; 
Alas ! that ye, the mighty and the 
wise. 
Who, if ye dared, might not aspire 
to less 
Than ye conceive of power, should 

fear the lies 
Which thou, and thou, didst frame 
for mysteries 
To blind your slaves :— consider your 
own thought. 
An empty and a cruel sacritice 
Ye now prepare for a vain idol 
wrought 
Out of the fears and hate which vain 
desires have brought. 



" Ye seek for happiness— alas the 
day ! 
Ye find it not in luxury nor in gold, 
Nor in the fame, nor in the envied 
sway, 
For which, O willing slaves to Cus- 
tom old. 
Severe taskmistress, ye your hearts 
have sold. 
Ye seek for peace, and, when ye die, 
to dream 
No evil dreams : all mortal things 
are cold 
And senseless then ; if aught survive, 
1 deem 
It must be love and joy, for they Im- 
mortal seem. 



134 



THE flBVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XVIII. 

" Fear not the future, weep not for 
the past. 
Oh could I win your ears to dare 
be now 
Glorious and great and calm ! that 
ye would cast 
Into the dust those symbols of your 

woe, 
Purple, and gold, and steel ! that 
ye would go 
Proclaiming to the nations whence ye 
came 
That Want, and Plague, and Fear, 
from slavery flow ; 
And that mankind is free, and that 
the shame 
Of royalty and faith is lost in freedom's 
fanie! 



''If thus, 't is well : if not, I come to 

say 

That Laon— " while the Stranger 

spoke, among 

The council sudden tumult and affray 

Arose, for many of those warriors 

young 
Had on his eloquent accents fed 
and hung 
Like bees on mountain-flowers : they 
knew the truth. 
And from their thrones in vindica- 
tion sprung ; 
The men of faith and law then with- 
out ruth 
Drew forth their secret steel, and 
stabbed each ardent youth. 



XX. 

They stabbed them in the back, and 
sneered— a slave 
Who stood behind the throne those 
corpses drew 
Each to its bloody, dark, and secret 
grave ; 
And one more daring raised his 

steel anew 
To pierce the Stranger. " What 
hast thou to do 
With me, poor wretch ? " Calm, sol- 
emn, and severe, 
That voice unstrung his sinews, 
and he threw 
His dagger on the ground, and, pale 
with fear. 
Sate silently — his voice then did the 
Stranger rear. 



" It doth avail not that I weep for] 

ye— 

Ye cannot change, since ye are old' 
and gray. 
And ye have chosen your lot — yourj 
fame must be 
A book of blood, whence in a: 

milder day 
Men shall learn truth, when ye arei 
wrapt in clay : 
Now ye shall triumph. I am Laon's 
friend, 
And him to your revenge will I be- 
tray. 
So ye concede one easy boon. At- 
tend 1 
For now I speak of things which yei^ 
can apprehend. 



XXII. 

"There is a People mighty in its 
youth, 
A land beyond the Oceans of the 
West, 
Where, though with I'udest rites, j 
Freedom and Truth 
Are worshipt. From a glorious 

Mother's breast 
Who, since high Athens fell, 
amone the rest 
Sate like the Queen of Nations, but t 
in woe. 
By inbred monsters outraged and 
opprest, 
Turns to her chainless child for suc- 
cor now. 
It draws the milk of Power in Wis- 
dom's fullest flow. 



"That land is like an eagle whose 
young gaze 
Feeds on the noontide beam, whose 
golden plume 
Floats moveless on the storm, and in 
the blaze 
Of sunrise gleams when Earth is 

wrapt in gloom ; 
An epitaph of glory for the tomb 
Of murdered Europe may thy fame 
be made. 
Great People I As the sands shalt 
thou become ; 
Thy growth is swift as mom when 
night must fade ; 
The multitudinous Earth shall sleep 
beneath thy (hade. 



THE llEVOLT OF ISLAM, 



135 



XXIV. 

" Yes, in the desert, then, Is bnilt a 
home 
For Freedom ! Genius is made 
strong to rear 
Tlie monuments of man beneath the 
dome 
Of a new Heaven ; myriads assem- 
ble there 
Wliom the proud lords of man, in 
rajre or fear. 
Drive from their wasted homes : the 
boon I pray 
Is this— that Cythna shall be con- 
voyed there, — 
Nay, start not at the name — Amer- 
'ica ! 
And then to you this night Laon will 
I betray. 



XXV. 



I am 



"With me do what you will, 
your foe ! " 
The light of such a joy as makes 
the stare 
Of hungry snakes like living emer- 
alds glow 
Shone in a hundred human eyes. — 

" Where, where 
Is Laon ? Haste ! fly ! drag him 
sv.'iftly here ! 
We grant thy boon." — "I put no 
trust in ye ; 
Swear by the Power ye dread."— 
"We swear, we swear !" 
The Stranger threw his vest back 
suddenly, 
Vnd smiled in gentle pride, and said, 
" Lo 1 I am he !" 

CANTO XII. 

I. 

The transport of a fierce and mon- 
strous gladne.ss 
Spread through the multitudinous 
.streets, fast flying 
Upon the winds of fear ; from his 
dull madness 
The starveling waked, and died in 

joy ; the dying, 
Among the corpses in stark agony 
lying, 
Just heard the happy tidings, and in 
hope 
Closed their faint eyes ; from 
house to house replying 
With loud acclaim, the living shook 
Heaven's cope, 
Lud filled the .^itartled Earth with 
echoes : morn did ope 



Its pale eyes then ; and lo ! the long 
array 
Of guards in golden arras, and 
priests beside, 
Singing their bloody hymns, whose 
garbs betray 
The blackness of the faith it seems 

to hide ; 
And see the Tyrant's gem-wrought 
chariot glide 
Among the gloomy cowls and glitter- 
ing spears— 
A Shape of light is sitting by his 
side, 
A child most beautiful. I' the midst 
appears 
Laon— exempt'alone from mortal hopes 
and fears. 



III. 

His head and feet are bare, his 
hands are bound 
Behind with heavy chains, yet none 
do wreak 
Their scoffs on him, though myriads 
throng around ; 
There are no sneers upon his lip 

which speak 
That scorn or hate has made him 
bold ; his cheek 
Resolve has not turned pale— his 
eyes are mild 
And calm, and, like the morn about 
to break. 
Smile on mankind— his heart seems 
reconciled 
To all things and itself, like a reposing 
child. 



IV. 

Tumult was in the soul of all beside, 
111 joy, or doubt, or fear ; but those 
who saw 
Their tranquil victim pass felt won- 
der glide. 
Into their brain, and became calm 

with awe.— 
See, the .slow pageant near the 
pile doth draw. 
A thousand torches in the spacious 
square, 
Borne by the ready slaves of ruth- 
loss law, 
Await the signal round : the morn- 
ing fair 
Is changed to a dim night by that un- 
natural glare. 



136 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM, 



And see, beneath a sun-bright can- 
opy, 
Upon a platform level with the 
pile.. 
The anxious Tj'rant sit, enthroned 
on high, 
Girt by the chieftains of the host : 

all smile 
In expectation, but one child : the 
while 
I, Laon, led by mutes, ascend my 
bier 
Of fire, and look around : each dis- 
tant isle 
Is dark in the bright dawn ; towers 
far and near 
Pierce like reposing flames the tremu- 
lous atmosphere. 

VI. 

There was such silence through the 
host as when 
An earthquake, trampling on some 
populous town, 
Has crusht ten thousand with one 
tread, and men 
Expect the second ; all were mute 

but one. 
That fairest child, who, bold with 
love, alone 
Stood up before the King, without 
avail 
Pleading for Laon's life— her stifled 
groan 
Was heard— she trembled like one 
aspen pale 
Among the gloomy pines of a Norwe- 
gian vale. 



VII. 

What were his thoughts, linkt in the 
morning sun 
Among those reptiles, stingless 
with delay, 
Even like a tyrant's Avrath ?— The 
signal-gun 
Roared— hark, again ! In that 

dread pause he lay 
As in a quiet dream— the slaves 
obey— 
A thousand torches drop,— and hark ! 
the last 
Burst.s on that awful silence ; far 
away, 
Millions, with hearts that beat both 
loud and fast. 
Watch for the springing flame expec- 
tant and aghast. 



They fly— the torches fall— a cry of 
fear 
Has startled the triumphant I— 
they recede ! 
For, ere the cannon's roar has died, 
they hear 
The tramp of hoofs like earth- 
quake, and a steed, 
Dark and gigantic, with the tem- 
pest's speed 
Bursts through their ranks : a 
woman sits thereon, 
Fairer, it seems, than aught that 
earth can breed, 
Calm, radiant, like the phantom of 
the dawn, 
A spirit from the caves of daylight 
wandering gone. 



IX. 

All thought it was God's Angel come 
to sweep 
The lingering guilty to their fiery 
grave ; 
The Tyrant from his throne in dread I 
did leap, — 
Her innocence his child from fearr 

did save ; 
Scared by the faith they feigned, , 
each priestly slave 
Knelt for his mercy whom they ■ 
served with blood, 
And, like the refluence of a mighty > 
wave 
Suckt into the loud sea, the multi-- 
tude 
With crushing panic fled in terror's J 
altered mood. 



They pause, they blush, they gaze ; 
—a gathering shout 
Bursts, like one sound from the ten 
thousand streams 
Of a tempestuous sea :— that sudden 
rout 
One checked who never in his 

mildest dreams 
Felt awe from grace or loveliness, 
the seams 
Of his rent heart so hard and cold 
a creed 
Had seared with blistering ice :— 
but he misdeems 
That he is wise whose wounds do 
only bleed ^ 

Inly for self ;— thus thought theW 
Iberian Priest indeed, ' 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



137 



£1. 

And others too thought he was wise 
to see 
In pain and fear and hate some- 
thing divine ; 
In love and beauty, no divinity. 
Now with a bitter smile, whose 

light did shine 
Like a fiend's hope upon his lips 
and eyne, 
He said, and the persuasion of that 
sneer 
Rallied his trembling comrades — 
"Is it mine 
To stand alone, when kings and 

soldiers fear 
L woman ? Heaven has sent its other 
victim here." 



"Were it not impious," said the 
King, " to break 
Our holy oath ?"—" Impious to 
keep it, say ! " 
Shrieked the exulting Priest. 
" Slaves, to the stake 
Bind her, and on my head the bur- 
den lay 
Of her just torments :— at the 
Judgment-day 
Will I stand up before the golden 
throne 
Of heaven, and cry, ' To thee did I 
betray 
An Inlidel ! but for me she would 

have known 
mother moment's joy !— the glory be 
thine own !' " 



They trembled, but replied not, nor 
obeyed, 
Pausing in breathless silence. 
Cythna sprung 
From her gigantic steed, who, like a 
shade 
Chased by the winds, those vacant 

streets among 
Fled tameless, as the brazen rein 
she flung 
Upon his neck, and kist his mooned 
brow. 
A piteous sight, that one so fair 
and young 
The clasp of such a fearful death 

should woo 
nth smiles of tender Joy, as beamed 
from Cythna now. 



XIV. 

The warm tears burst in spite of 
faith and fear 
From many a tremulous eye, but, 
like soft dews 
Which feed Spring's earliest buds, 
hung gathered there, 
Frozen by doubt, — alas ! they could 

not choose 
But weep ; for, when her faint 
limbs did refuse 
To climb the pyre, upon the mutes 
she smiled ; 
And with her eloquent gestures, 
and the hues 
Of her quick lips, even as a weary 
child 
Wins sleep from some fond nurse with 
its caresses mild, 

XV. 

She won them, though unwilling, 
her to bind 
Near me, among the snakes. When 
there had fled 
One soft reproach that was most 
thrilling kind. 
She smiled on me, and nothing 

then we said. 
But each upon the other's counte- 
nance fed 
Looks of insatiate love ; the mighty 
veil 
Which doth divide the living and 
the dead 
Was almost rent, the world grew 
dim and pale, — 
All light in Heaven or Earth beside 
our love did fail. 

XVI. 

Yet— yet— one brief relapse, like the 
last beam 
Of dying flames, the stainless air 
around 
Hung silent and serene— a blood-red 
gleam 
Burst upwards, hurling fiercely 

from the ground 
The globed smoke ; I heard the 
mighty sound 
Of its uprise, like a tempestuous 
ocean ; 
And through its chasms I saw as 
in a swound 
The Tyrant's child fall without life 
or motion 
Before his throne, subdued by some 
unseen emotion.— 



138 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XVII. 

And is this death ?— The pyre has 
disappeared, 
The Pestilence, the Tyrant, and 
the throng ; 
The flames grow silent— slowly there 
is heard 
The mnsic of a breath-suspending 

song, 
Which, like the kiss of love when 
life is young. 
Steeps the faint eyes in darkness 
sweet and deep ; 
With ever-changing notes it floats 
along. 
Till on my passive soul there seemed 
to creep 
A melody, like waves on wrinkled 
sands that leap. 

XVIII. 

The warm touch of a soft and tremu- 
lous hand 
Wakened me then ; lo ! Cythna 
sate reclined 
Beside me, on the waved and golden 
sand 
Of a clear pool, upon a bank o'er- 

twined 
With strange and star-bright 
flowers which to the wind 
Breathed divine odor ; high above 
was spread 
The emerald heaven of trees of 
unknown kind. 
Whose moonlike blooms and bright 
fruit overhead 
A shadow which was light upon the 
waters shed. 

XIX. 

And round about sloped many a 
lawnj' mountain. 
With incense-bearing forests, and 
vast caves 
Of marble radiance, to that mighty 
fountain ; 
And, where the flood its own bright 

margin laves, 
Their echoes talk with its eternal 
waves, 
Which from the depths whose jagged 
caverns breed 
Their unreposing strife it lifts and 
heaves,— 
Till through a chasm of hills they 
roll, and feed 
A river deep, which flies with smooth 
but arrowy speed. 



XX. 

As we sate gazing In a trance of 
wonder, 
A boat approacht, borne by the 
musical air 
Along the waves which sung and 
sparkled under 
Its rapid keel— a winged shape 

sate there, 
A child with silver-shining wings, 
so fair 
That, as her bark did through the 
waters glide, 
The shadow of the lingering waves 
did wear 
Light, as from starry beams ; from 
side to side 
While veering to the wind her plumes 
the bark did guide. 



XXI. 

The boat was one curved shell of 
hollow pearl. 
Almost translucent with the light 
divine 
Of her within ; the prow and stern 
did curl. 
Horned on high, like the young. 

moon supine. 
When o'er dim twilight mountains; 
dark with pine 
It floats upon the sunset's sea of 
beams, 
Whose golden waves in many a 
purple line 
Fade fast, till, borne on sunlight's' 
ebbing streams. 
Dilating, on earth's verge the sunkeai 
meteor gleams. 

XXII. 

Its keel has struck the sands beside 
our feet. — 
Then Cythna turned to me, and 
from her eyes. 
Which swam with unshed tears, a 
look more sweet 
Than happy love, a wild and glad 

surprise, 
Glanced as she spake : "Ay. this 
is Paradise, 
And not a dream, and we are alli 
united ! ! 

Lo ! that is mine own child, who in i 
the guise 
Of madness came, like day to one 
benighted 
In lone.some woodii ; my heart Is now 
too well requited ! " 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



139 



And then she wept aloud, and in her 
arms 
Clasped that bright Shape, less 
marvellously fair 
Than her own human hues and living 
charms ; 
Which, as she leaned in passion's 

silence there, 
Breathed warmth on the cold 
bosom of the air. 
Which seemed to blush and tremble 
with delitrht ; 
The glossy darkness of her stream- 
ing hair 
Fell o'er that snowy child, and wrapt 
from sight 
The fond and long embrace which did 
their hearts unite. 



Then the bright child, the plumed 
Seraph, came. 
And fixt its blue and beaming eyes 
on mine. 
And said: "I was disturbed by 
tremulous shame 
When first we met, yet knew that 

I was thine. 
From the same hour in which thy 
lips divine 
Kindled a clinging dream within my 
brain. 
Which ever waked when I might 
sleep, to twine 
Thine image with her memory dear— 
again 
We meet ; exempted now from mortal 
fear or pain. 

XXV. 

" When the consuming flames had 
wrapt ye round, 
The hope which I had cherisht 
went away ; 
I fell in agony on the senseless 
ground, 
And hid mine eyes in dust, and far 

astray 
My mind was gone, when, bright 
like dawning day. 
The Spectre of the Plague before me 
flew. 
And breathed upon my lips, and 
seemed to say, 
' They wait for thee, beloved ! '—then 
I knew 
The death-mark on my breast, and be- 
came calm anew. 



" It was the calm of love— for I was 
dying. 
I saw the black and half-extin- 
guished pyre 
In its own gray and shrunken ashes 
lying ; 
Tlie pitchy smoke of the departed 

fire 
Still hung in many a hollow dome 
and spire 
Above the towers, like night ; 
beneath whose shade. 
Awed by the ending of their own 
desire. 
The armies stood ; a vacancy was 
made 
In expectation's depth, and so they 
stood dismayed. 



" The frightful silence of that altered 

mood 

The tortures of the dying clove 

alone. 

Till one uprose among the multitude, 

And said : ' The flood of time is 

rolling on ; 
We stand upon its brink, whilst 
they are gone 
To glide in peace down death's mys- 
terious stream. 
Have ye done well ? They moul- 
der, flesh and bone, 
Who might have made this life's en- 
venomed dream 
A sweeter draught than ye will ever 
taste, I deem. 



XXVIII. 

" ' These perish as the good and great 
of yore 
Have perisht, and their murderers 
will repent. 
Yes, vain and barren tears shall flow 
before 
Yon smoke has faded from the 

firmament, — 
Even for this cause, that ye, who 
must lament 
The death of those that made this 
world so fair. 
Cannot recall them now ; but there 
is lent 
To man the wisdom of a high despair 
When such can die, and he live on and 
linger here. 



140 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



" ' Ay, ye may fear— not now the 

From fabled bell as by a charm 
withdrawn,— 
All power and faith must pass, since 
calmly hence 
In pain and fire have unbelievers 

gone ; 
And ye must sadly turn away, and 
moan 
In secret, to his home each one re- 
turning, 
And to long ages shall this hour be 
known ; 
And slowly shall its memory, ever 
burning, 
Fill this dark night of things with an 
eternal morning. 

XXX. 

" ' For me the world is grown too 
void and cold, 
Since hope pursues immortal des- 
tiny 
With steps thus slow— therefore 
shall ye behold 
How those who love, yet fear not, 

dare to die ; 
Tell to your children this ! ' Then 
suddenly 
He sheathed a dagger in his heart, 
and fell ; 
My brain grew dark in death, and 
yet to me 
There came a murmur from the 
crowd to tell 
Of deep and mighty change which sud- 
denly befel. 

XXXI. 

" Then suddenly I stood, a winged 
Thought, 
Before the immortal Senate, and 
the seat 
Of that star-shining Spirit, whence is 
wrought 
The strength of its dominion, good 

and great, 
The better Genius of this world's 

His realm around one mighty Fane 
is spread, 
Elysian islands bright and fortu- 
nate. 
Calm dwellings of the free and happy 
dead, 
Where I am sent to lead." These 
winged words she said, 



XXXII. 

And with the silence of her eloquent 

smile 

Bade us embark in her divine canoe.- 

Then at the helm we took our seat,! 

the while 

Above her head those plumes of 

dazling hue 
Into the wind's invisible streami 
she threw. 
Sitting beside the prow : like gos-^ 
samer 
On the swift breath of morn, the; 
vessel flew I 

O'er the bright whirlpools of that' 
fountain fair, | 

Whose shores receded fast whilst W€ 
seemed lingering there. 



XXXIII. j 

Till down that mighty stream, darki 
calm, and fleet. 
Between a chasm of cedarn moun ; 
tains riven, 
Chased by the thronging windjl 
whose viewless feet, 
As swift as twinkling beams, hacii 
under Heaven 
From woods and waves wild sounds 

and odors driven, 
The boat fled visibly— three nightfl 
and days. 
Borne like a cloud through morn 
and noon, and even. 
We sailed along the winding waterj 
ways I 

Of the vast stream, a long and laby' 
rinthine maze. ' 



A scene of joy and wonder to beholc 

That river's shapes and shadows 

changing ever, j 

When the broad sunrise filled witi! 

deepening gold ; 

Its whirlpools where all hues di(; 

spread and quiver. 
And where melodious falls di( 
burst and shiver 
Among rocks clad with flowers, th' 
foam and spray 
Sparkled like stars upon the sunn; 
river ; 
Or, when the moonlight poured i 
holier day, 
One vast and glittering lake arounc' 
green islands lay. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



141 



Morn, noou, and even, that boat of 
pearl outran 
The streams which bore it, like the 
arrowy cloud 
Of tempest, or the speedier thought 
of man 
Which flieth forth and cannot make 

abode ; 
Sometimes through forests, deep 
like night, we glode, 
Between the walls of mighty moun- 
, tains crowned 

With Cyclopean piles, whose tur- 
rets proud. 
The homes of the departed, dimly 

frowned 
)'er the bright waves which girt their 
dark foundations round. 



Sometimes between the wide and 
flowering meadows 
Mile after mile we sailed, and 't 
was delight 
To see far off the sunbeams chase the 
shadows 
Over the grass : sometimes beneath 

the night 
Of wide and vaulted caves whose 
roofs were bright 
With starry gems we fled, whilst 
from their deep 
And dark-green chasms shades 
beautiful and white 
Amid sweet sounds across our path 

would sweep, 
like swift and lovely dreams that walk 
the waves of sleep. 

XXXVII. 

And ever as we sailed our minds were 

full 
Of love and wisdom, which would 
overflow 
In converse wild and sweet and won- 
derful, 
And in quick smiles whose light 

would come and go 
Like music o'er wide waves, and in 
the flow 
Of sudden tears, and in the mute 
caress— 
For a deep shade was cleft, and we 
did know 
That virtue, though obscured on 

Earth, not less 
survives all mortal change In lasting 
lovelinesa 



Three days and nights we sailed, as 
thought and feeling 
Number delightful hours— for 
through the sky 
The sphered lamps of day and night, 
revealing 
New changes and new glories, 

rolled on high. 
Sun, moon, and moonlike lamps, 
. the progeny 

Of a diviner Heaven, serene and 
fair : 
On the fourth day, wild as a wind- 
wrought sea 
The stream became, and fast and 
faster bare 
The spirit-winged boat, steadily speed- 
ing there. 



Steady and swift, where the waves 
rolled like mountains 
Within the vast ravine whose rifts 

did pour 
Tumultuous floods from their ten- 
thousand fountains. 
The thunder of whose earth-uplift- 
ing roar 
Made the air sweep in whirlwinds 
from the shore, 
Calm as a shade, the boat of that fair 
child 
Securely fled that rapid stress be- 
fore, 
Amid the topmost spray and sunbows 
wild 
Wreathed in the silver mist : in joy and 
pride we smiled. 

XL. 

The torrent of that wide and raging 
river 
Is past, and our aerial speed sus- 
pended. 
We look behind ; a golden mist did 
quiver 
Where its wild surges with the 

lake were blended : 
Our bark hung there, as on a line 
suspended 
Between two heavens, that windless, 
waveless lake 
Which four great cataracts from 
four vales, attended 
By mists, aye feed : from rocks and 
clouds tnev break. 
And of that azure sea a silent refuge 
make. 



143 



PRINCE ATHANASE. 



XLI. 

Motionless resting on the lake awhile, 

I saw its marge of snow-bright 

mountains rear 

Their peaks aloft, I saw each radiant 

isle, 

And in the midst, afar, even like a 

sphere 
Hung in one hollow sky, did there 
appear 
The Temple of the Spirit ; on the 
sound 
Which issued thence drawn nearer 
and more near. 
Like the swift moon this glorious 
earth around. 
The charmed boat approached, and 
there its haven found. 

PRINCE ATHANASE.i 
A FRAGMENT. 

Part I. 

There was a youth, who, as with toil 
and travel, 

Had grown quite weak and gray before 
his time ; 

Nor any could the restless griefs un- 
ravel 

Which burned within him, withering 

up his prime 
And goading him, like fiends, from 

land to land. 
Not his the load of any secret crime, 

For naught of ill his heart could under- 
stand, 

By pity and wild sorrow for the 
same ;— 

Not his the thirst for glory or com- 
mand 

1 The idea Shelley had formed of Prince 
Athanase was a good deal modelled on 
Alastor. In the first sketch of the poem, 
he named it Patulvnios and Urania. 
Athanase seeks through the world the 
One whom he may love. He meets, in the 
ship in which he is embarked, a lady who 
appears to him to embody his ideal of love 
and beauty. But slie proves to be Pan- 
demos, or the earthly and unworthy 
Venus ; who, after disappointing his cher- 
ished dreams and hopes, deserts him. Ath- 
anase, crushed by sorrow, pines and dies. 
" On his deathbed, the lady who can really 
reply to his soul comes and kisses his lips." 
(The Deathbed of Athanase.) The poet 
describes her [in the words of the final 
fragments.] This slender note is all we have 
to aid our imagmation in shaping out the 
form of the poem, such as its author imag- 
ined. [Mrs. Shelley's Note.] 



Baffled with blast of hope-consuminjt) 
shame ; I 

Nor evil joys which fire the vulga:ip 
breast 

And quench in speedy smoke its feeblij] 
flame, 



Had left within his soul their dark uni 

rest : | 

Nor what religion fables of the grave 

Feared he,— Philosophy's accepted 

guest. 



For none than he a purer heart couL^ 

have. 
Or that loved good more for itseliL 

alone ; 
Of naught in heaven or earth was hij 

the slave. f 

What sorrow strange, and shadowy^ 

and unknown, 
Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, througl: 

mankind ?— 
If with a human sadness he did groanl 

He had a gentle yet aspiring mind ; 
Just, innocent, with varied learninji 
fed, I 

And such a glorious consolation find 



In others' joy, when all their own i 

dead : 
He loved, and labored for his kind iii 

grief, '^ 

And yet, unlike all others, it is said, ' 



That from such toil he never foun(.|j 

relief. 
Although a child of fortune and o 

power. 
Of ancestral name the orphan chief, 

I 
His soul had wedded Wisdom, and he 

dower 
Is love and justice, clothed in which h< I 

sate I 

Apart from men, as in a lonely tower jj 

Pitying the tumult of their dark esjp 

tate— 
Yet even in youth did he not e'er abusi jg 
The strength of wealth or thought, t( 

consecrate 

Those false opinions which the harsl j 
rich use k 

To blind the world they famish foif 
their pride ; 51 

Nor did he hold from any man his dues ; 



PRINCE ATHANASE. 



US 



ut like a steward in honest dealings 

tried 
^ith those who toiled and wept, the 

poor and wise. 
is riches and his cares he did divide. 

earless he was, and scorning all dis- 
guise, 

That he dared do or think, thongh 
men might start, 

.e spoke with mild yet unaverted 
eyes ; 

iberal he was of soul, and frank of 
heart, 

.nd to his many friends — all loved him 
well— 

Vhate'er he knew or felt he would im- 
part. 

f words he found those inmost 

thoughts to tt>ll ; 
? not, he smiled or wept ; and his 

weak foes 
le neither .spurned nor hated, though 

with fell 

Lnd mortal hate their thousand voices 

rose, 
hey past like aimless arrows from his 

ear — 
[or did his heart or mind its portal 

close 

'o those, or them, or any whom life's 

sphere 

[ay comprehend within its wide array. 
Vhat sadness made that vernal spirit 

sere ? 

te knew not. Though his life, day 

after day, 
Tas failing like an unreplenisht 

stream, 
hough in his eyes a cloud and burden 

lay, 

'hrough which his soul, like Vesper's 

serene beam 
iercing the chasms of ever rising 

clouds, 
>hone, softly burning ; though his lips 

did seem 

like reeds which quiver in impetuous 

floods ; 
.nd through his sleep, and o'er each 

waking hour, 
'houghts after thoughts, unresting 

multitudes, 



Were driven within him, by some se- 
cret power. 

Which bade them blaze, and live, and 
roll afar. 

Like lights and sounds, from haunted 
tower to tower 

O'er castled mountains borne, when 

tempest's war 
Is levied by the night-contending 

winds 
And the pale dalesmen watch with 

eager ear ;— 

Though such were in his spirit, as the 

fiends 
Which wake and feed on everliving 

woe, — 
What was this grief, which ne'er in 

other minds 

A mirror found,— he knew not— none 

could know ; 
But on whoe'er might question him he 

turned 
The light of his frank eyes, as if to 

show. 

He knew not of the grief within that 
burned, 

But asked forbearance with a mourn- 
ful look ; 

Or spoke in words from which none 
ever learned 

The cause of his disquietude ; or shook 
With spasms of silent passion ; or 

turned pale : 
So that his friends soon rarely under- 
took 

To stir his secret pain without avail ;— 
For all who knew and loved him then 

perceived 
That there was drawn an adamantine 

veil 

Between his heart and mind, — both 
unrelieved 

Wrought in his brain and bosom sepa- 
rate strife. 

Some said that he was mad, others 
believed 

That memories of an antenatal life 
Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal 

hell; 
And others said that such mysterious 

grief 



144 



PRINCE ATHANASE. 



From God's displeasure, like a dark- 
ness, fell 

On souls like his which owned no higher 
law 

Than love ; love calm, steadfast, in- 
vincible 

By mortal fear or supernatural awe ; 
And others, — "'T is the shadow of a 

dream 
Which the veiled eye of memory never 

saw 

"But through the soul's abyss, like 

some dark stream 
Through shattered mines and caverns 

underground 
Rolls, shaking its foundations ; and no 

beam 

"Of joy may rise, but it is quencht 

and drowned 
In the dim whirlpools of this dream 

obscure. 
Soon its exhausted waters will have 

found 

" A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure, 
O Athauase !— in one so good and great, 
Evil or tumult cannot long endure." 

So spake they : idly of another's state 
Babbling vain words and fond philos- 
ophy ; 
This was their consolation ; such de- 
bate 

Men held with one another ; nor did he 
Like one who labors with a human woe 
Decline this talk : as if its theme 
might be 

Another, not himself, he to and fro 
Questioned and can vast it with subtlest 

wit. 
And none but those who loved him best 

could know 

That which he knew not, how it galled 

and bit 
His weary mind, this converse vain 

and cold ; 
For like an eyeless nightmare grief did 

sit 

Upon his being ; a snake which fold by 

fold 
Prest out the life of life, a clinging 

fiend 



ii 



Which clencht him if he stirred withfi 

deadlier hold ;— 
And so his grief remained— let it re-fi 

main— untold.' 



Part II. 

FRAGMENT I 

Prince Athanase had one belovedl 

friend. 
An old, old man, with hair of silver^) 

white, 
And lips where heavenly smiles would] 

hang and blend 



With his wise words ; and eyes whose<(ti 

arrowy light 
Shone like the reflex of a thousanclifc 

minds. 
He was the last whom superstition's 

blight 

Had spared in Greece— the blight that|! 

cramps and blinds, — 
And in his olive bower at CEnoe 
Had sate from earliest youth. Like 

one who finds |f 

A fertile island in a barren sea, pi 

One mariner who has survived hisil 

mates III 

Many a drear month in a great ship— ! 

so he |i 

With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet? 
debates i 

Of ancient lore, there fed his lonely" 
being : — 

" The mind becomes that which it con- 
templates," — 

,1 

And thus Zonoras, by forever seeing 

Their bright creations, grew likeiii 
wisest men ; ! 

And when he heard the crash of na- ^ 
tions fleeing 

A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins ,1^ 

then, 
O sacred Hellas ! many weary years » 
He wandered, till the path of Laian'sfi 

glen 

' The Author was pursuing a fuller devel 
opment of the ideal character of Athanase, i 
wheu it struck him that in an attempt at ii 
extreme refinement and analysis, his con- 1,. 
ceptions misrht be betrayed into the assum- ' 
ing a morbid character. The reader will j 
judge whether he is a loser or gainer by theil 
difference. [Shelley's Note.] I 



PRINCE ATHANASE. 



145 



I'as grass-grown— and the unremem- 

bered tears 
ere drj' in Laian for their honored 

chief, 
'ho fell in Byzant, pierced by Moslem 

spears :— 

Qd as the lady lookt with faithful 

grief 
om her high lattice o'er the rugged 

path, 
"here she once saw that horseman 

toil, with brief 

Qd blighting hope, who with the news 
of death 

ruck body and soul as with a mortal 
blight, 

ie saw beneath the chestnuts, far be- 
neath, 

1 old man toiling up, a weary wight; 
id soon within her hospitable hall 
le saw her white hairs glittering in 
the light 

the wood fire, and round his shoul- 
ders fall ; 

id his wan visage and his withered 
mien 

3t calm and gentle and majestical. 

id Athanase, her child, who must 

have been 
ten three years old, sate opposite and 

gazad' 
patient silence. 

FRAGMENT II. 

CH was Zonoras ; and as daylight 

finds 
le amaranth glittering on the path 

of frost, 
hen autumn nights have nipt all 

weaker kinds, 

us through his age, dark, cold, and 

tempest-tost, 
one truth upon Zonoras ; and he 

filled 
om fountains pure, nigh overgrown 

and lost, 

e spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, 
ilh soul-sustaining songs of ancient 

lore 
d philosophic wisdom, clear and 

mild. 



And sweet and subtle talk they ever- 
more. 

The pupil and the master, shared ; 
until. 

Sharing that undiminishable store. 

The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill 
Outrun the winds that chase them, 

soon outran 
His teacher, and did teach with native 

skill 

Strange truths and new to that experi- 
enced man ; 

Still they were friends, as few have 
ever been 

Who mark the extremes of life's dis- 
cordant span. 

So in the caverns of the forest green, 
Or by the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, 
Zonoras and Prince Athanase were 
seen 

By summer woodmen ; and when win- 
ter's ro.ar 

Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of 
war. 

The Balearic fisher, driven from shore. 

Hanging upon the peaked wave afar, 
Then saw their lamp from Laian 's tur- 
ret gleam. 
Piercing the stormy darkness like a 
star, 

Which pours beyond the sea one stead- 
fast beam. 
Whilst all the constellations of the sky 
Seemed reeling through the storm. 
They did but seem — 

For, lo ! the wintry clouds are all gone 
by, 

And bright Arcturus through yon 
pines is glowing. 

And far o'er southern waves, immov- 
ably 

Belted Orion hangs— warm light is 

fiowing 
From the young moon into the sunset's 

chasm. — 
" O, summer eve ! with power divine, 

bestowing 

" On thine own bird the sweet enthu- 
siasm 

Which overflows in notes of liquid 
gladness. 

Filling the sky like light ! How many 
a spasm 



146 



PRINCE ATHANASE. 



" Of fevered brains, opprest with 
grief and madness, 

Were lulled by thee, delightful night- 
ingale ! 

And these soft waves, murmuring a 
gentle sadness, 

"And the far sighings of yon piny 

dale 
Made vocal by some wind, we feel not 

here, — 
I bear alone what nothing may avail 

"To lighten— a strange load!"— No 

human ear 
Heard this lament ; but o'er the visage 

wan 
Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere 

Of dark emotion, a swift shadow ran. 
Like wind upon some forest-bosomed 

lake, 
Glassy and dark.— And that divine old 

man 

Beheld his mystic friend's whole being 

shake. 
Even where its inmost depths were 

gloomiest — 
And with a calm and measured voice 

he spake. 

And with a soft and equal pressure, 
prest 

That cold lean hand :— " Dost thou re- 
member yet 

When the curved moon then lingering 
in the west 

"Paused in yon waves her mighty 

horns to wet. 
How in those beams we walkt, half 

resting on the sea ? 
'T is Ju?t one year— sure thou dost not 

forget— 

" Then Plato's words of light in thee 
and me 

Lingered like moonlight in the moon- 
less east. 

For we had just then read—thy 
memory 

"Is faithful now— the story of the 

feast ; 
And Agathon and Diotima seemed 
From death and dark forgetfulness re- 
least. 

FRAGMENT III. 

'T WAS at the season when the Earth 
upspringa 



From slumber, as a sphered angel'l 

child 
Shadowing its eyes with green ani| 

golden wings. 

Stands up before its mother bright am 

mild. 
Of whose soft voice the air expectam 

seems — 
So stood before the sun, which shorul 

and smiled 



So see it rise thus joyous from it 

dreams, 
The fresh and radiant Earth. Thi 

hoary grove 
Waxt green and flowers burst fortijj^ 

like starry beams ; — 



The grass in the warm sun did stai 
and move, I 

And sea-buds burst beneath the wavC( 
serene : — 

How many a one, though none be neejti 
to love. 

Loves then the shade of his own sou 

half seen 
In any mirror— or the spring's youn 

minions. 
The winged leaves amid the copse|t 

green ;— 

How many a spirit then puts on tl 

pinions 
Of fancy, and outstrips the laggir 

blast. 
And his own steps— and over wicjli 

dominions 

la 
II 



Sweeps in his dream-drawn chario 

far and fast. 
More fleet than storms— the wide wor 

shrinks below. 
When winter and despondency a:'' 

past. 

A, 
'T was at this season that Prince Athii 

nase jTl 

Past the white Alps— those eagle-ba i 

fling mountains 
Slept in their shrouds of snow ;— besii ,', 

the ways 

The waterfalls were voiceless— f 
their fountains iBi 

Were changed to mines of sunle| 
crystal now, .It 

Or by the curdling winds— like braz* 
wings Lii 



i 



KOSAl.lNI) AND HELEN. 



147 



Vhich clanged along .the mountain's 

marble brow— 
Varpt into adamantine fretwork, 

hung 
Lnd filled with frozen light the chasm 

below. 



FRAGMENT IV. 

'HOU art the wine who.st^ drunkenness 
is all 

Ve can desire, O Love ! and happy 
souls, 

Ire from thy vine the leaves of au- 
tumn fall, 

■atch thee, and feed from their o'er- 
flowing bowls 

housands who thirst for thy ambro- 
sial dew ;— 

hou art the radiance which where 
ocean rolls 

iivestest it ; and when the heavens are 
blue 

'hou finest them ; and when the earth 
is fair 

he shadow of thy moving wings im- 
bue 

ts deserts and its mountains, till they 

wear 
ieauty like some bright robe ; — thou 

ever soarest 
imong the towers of men, and as soft 

air 

n spring, which moves the unawak- 

ened forest, 
."lothing with leaves its branches bare 

and bleak, 
hou floatest among men ; and aye im- 

plorest 

'hat which from thee they should im- 
plore :— the weak 

k.lone kneel to thee, offering up the 
hearts 

'he strong have broken — yet where 
shall any seek 

V garment whom thou clothest not ? 
ANOTHEU FRAGMENT. 

lER hair was brown, her sphered eyes 

were brown, 
ind in their dark and liquid moisture 

swam, 
like the dim orb of the eclipsed moon ; 



Yet when the spirit flasht beneath, 

there came 
The light from them, as when tears of 

delight 
Double the western planet's serene 

fiame. 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 

A MODERN ECLOGUE. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

The story of " Rosalind and Helen" 
is, undoubtedly, not an attempt in the 
highest style of poetry. It is in no de- 
gree calculated to excite profound 
meditation ; and if, by interesting the 
affections and amusing the imagina- 
tion, it awaken a certain ideal melan- 
choly favorable to the reception of more 
important impressions, it will produce 
in the reader all that the writer expe- 
rienced in the composition. I resigned 
myself, as I wrote, to the impulse of 
the feelings which moulded the con- 
ception of the story ; and this impulse 
determined the pauses of a measure, 
which only pretends to be regular inas- 
much as it corresponds with, and ex- 
presses, the irregularity of the imagi- 
nations which inspired it. 

I do not know which of the few scat- 
tered poems I left in England will be 
selected by my bookseller to add to 
this collection. One,' which I sent 
from Italy, was written after a day's 
excursion among those lovely moun- 
tains which surround what was once 
the retreat, and where is now the sep- 
ulchre, of Petrarch. If any one is in- 
clined to condemn the insertion of the 
introductory lines, which image forth 
the sudden relief of a state of deep de- 
spondency by the radiant visions dis- 
closed by the sudden burst of an Italian 
sunrise in autumn on the highest peak 
of those delightful mountains, I can 
only offer as my excuse, that they were 
not erased at the request of a dear 
friend, with whom added years of in- 
tercourse only add to my apprehension 
of its value, and who would have had 
more right than any one to complain 
that she has not been able to extin- 
guish in me the very power of deline- 
ating sadness. 

Naples, Dec. 20, 1818. 

' " Lines written among the Euganean 
mils.'— Ed. 



148 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



Rosalind, Helek and her Child. 

Scene. The Shore of the Lake of 
Coma. 

HELEN. 

Come hither, my sweet Rosalind. 

'T is long since thou and I have met ; 

And yet methinks if were unkind 

Those moments to forget. 

Come sit by me. I see thee stand 

By this lone lake, in this far land, 

Thy loose hair in the light wind flying, 

Thy sweet voice to each tone of even 

United, and thine eyes replying 

To the hues of yon fair heaven. 

Come, gentle friend : wilt sit by me ? 

And be as thou wert wont to be 

Ere we were disunited ? 

None doth behold us now : the power 

That led us forth at this lone hour 

Will be but ill requited 

If thou depart in scorn : oh ! come, 

And talk of our abandoned home. 

Remember, this is Italy, 

And we are exiles. Talk with me 

Of that our land, whose wilds and 

floods, 
Barren and dark although they be, 
Were dearer than these chestnut 

woods : 
Those heathy paths, that inland 

stream. 
And the blue mountains, shapes which 

seem 
Like wrecks of childhood's sunny 

dream : 
Which that we have abandoned now, 
Weighs on the heart like that remorse 
Which altered friendship leaves. I 

seek 
No more our youthful intercourse. 
That cannot be ! Rosalind, speak. 
Speak to me. Leave me not.— When 

morn did come, 
When evening fell upon our common 

home. 
When for one hour we parted, — do not 

frown : 
I would not chide thee, though thy 

faith is broken : 
But turn to me. Oh ! by this cherished 

token, 
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not 

disown. 
Turn, as 't were but the memory of me, 
And not my scorned self who prayed to 

thee. 

ROSALIND. 

Is it a dream, or do I see 

And hear frail Helen ? I would flee 



Thy tainting touch ; but former years 
Arise, and bring forbidden tears ; 
And my o'erburdened memory 
Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. 
I share thy crime. I cannot choose 
But weep for thee : mine own strange 

grief 
But seldom stoops to .such relief : 
Nor ever did I love thee less, i 

Though mourning o'er thy wickedness • 
Even with a sister's woe. I knew 
What to the evil world is due. 
And therefore sternly did refuse 
To link me with the infamy 
Of one so lost as Helen. Now 
Bewildered by my dire despair. 
Wondering I "blush, and weep that thou 
Should'st love me still,— thou only ! — 

There, 
Let us sit on that gray stone, 
Till our mournful talk be done. 

HELEN. 

Alas ! not there ; I cannot bear 
The murmur of this lake to hear. 
A sound from there, Rosalind dear. 
Which never yet I heard elsewhere 
But in our native land, recurs. 
Even here where now we meet. It 

stirs 
Too much of suffocating sorrow ! 
In the dell of yon dark chestnut wood* 
Is a stone seat, a solitude 
Less like our own. The ghost of peaceip 
Will not desert this spot. To-morrow, 1 
If thy kind feelings should not cease. 
We may sit here. 1 

1 

ROSALIND. ( 

Thou lead, my sweet, 
And I will follow. 

henrt. 

'T is Fenici's seat I ; 
Where you are going ! This is not the ] , 

way. 
Mamma ; it leads behind those trees " 

that grow , 

Close to the little river. 



Yes : I know : 
I was bewildered. Kiss me, and be 

gay. 
Dear boy : why do you sob ? 

HENRY. 

I do not know ; 
But it might break any one's heart to 

see 
You and the lady cry so bitterly. 



ROSALIND AMD HELEN. 



U'J 



HELEN. 

[t is a gentle child, my friend. Go 

home, 

Eem-j^ and play with Lilla till I come. 
We only cried" with joy to see each 

other ; 
We are quite merry now : Good-night. 

The boy 

Lifted a sudden look upon his motlier, 
i\.nd in the gleam of forced and hollow 

joy 
Which lightened o'er lier face, laught 

with the glee 
Df light and unsuspecting infancy, 
A.nd whispered in her ear, " Bring 

home with you 
That sweet strange lady friend." Then 

off he flew. 
But stopt, and beckoned with a mean- 
ing smile. 

Where the road turned. Pt^le Rosa- 
lind the while. 
Hiding her face, stood weeping silently. 

[n silence then they took the way 
Beneath the forest's solitude. 
[t was a vast and antique wood, 
Thro' which they took their way ; 
And the gray shades of evening 
O'er that green wilderness did fling 
Still deeper solitude. 
Pursuing still the path that wound 
The vast and knotted trees around 
Thro' which slow shades were wander- 
ing, 

To a deep lawny dell they came, 
To a stone seat beside a spring. 
O'er which the columned wood did 

frame 

A roofless temple, like the fane 
Where, ere new creeds could faith ob- 
tain, 

Man's early race once knelt beneath 
The overhanging deity. 
O'er this fair fountain hung the sky. 
Now spangled with rare stars. The 

snake. 
The pale snake, that with eager breath 
Creeps here his noontide thirst to slake. 
Is beaming with many a mingled hue. 
Shed from yon dome's eternal blue. 
When he floats on that dark and lucid 

flood 
In the light of his own loveliness ; 
And the birds that in the fountain dip 
Their plumes, with fearless fellowship 
Above and round him wheel and hover. 
The fltfid wind is heard to stir 
One solitary leaf on high ; 
The chirping of the grasshopper 



Fills every pause. There is emotion 
In all that dwells at noontide here : 
Then, thro' the intricate wild wood, 
A maze of life and light a'hd motion 
Is woven. But there is stillness now : 
Gloom, and the trance of Nature now : 
The snake is in his cave asleep ; 
The birds are on the branches dream- 
ing : 
Only th(! shadows creep : 
Only the glow-worm is gleaming : 
Only the owls and the nightingales 
Wake in this dell when daylight fails. 
And gray shades gather in the woods : 
And the owls have all fled far away 
In a merrier glen to hoot and play, 
For the moon is veiled and sleeping 

now. 
The accustomed nightingale still broods 
On her accustomed bough, 
But she is mute ; for her false mate 
Has fled and left her desolate. 

This silent spot tradition old 

Had peopled with the spectral dead. 

For the roots of the speaker's hair felt 

cold 
And stiff, as with tremulous lips he 

told 
That a hellish shape at midnight led 
The ghost of a youth with hoary hair, 
And sate on the seat beside him there. 
Till a naked child came wandering by. 
When the fiend would change to a lady 

fair ! 
A fearful tale ! The truth was worse : 
For here a sister and a brother 
Had solemnized a monstrous curse, 
Meeting in this fair solitude : 
For beneath yon very skj'-, 
Had they resigned to one another 
Body and soul. The multitude. 
Tracking them to the secret wood, 
Tore limb from limb their innocent 

child. 
And stabbed and trampled on its 

mother ; 
But the youth, for God's most holy 

grace, 
A priest saved to burn in the market- 
place. 

Duly at evening Helen came 

To this lone silent spot. 

From the wrecks of a tale of wilder 

sorrow 
So much of sympathy to borrow 
As soothed her own dark lot. 
Duly each evening from her home, 
With her fair child would Helen come 
To sit upon that antiqne seat. 
While the hues of day were pale ; 



150 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



And the bright boy beside her feet 
Now lay, lifting at intervals 
His broad blue eyes on her ; 
Now, where some sudden impulse calls 
Following. He was a gentle boy 
And in all gentle sports took joy ; 
Oft in a dry leaf for a boat, 
With a small feather for a sail. 
His fancy on that spring would float, 
If some invisible breeze might stir 
Its marble cahn : and Helen smiled 
Thro' tears of awe on the gay child, 
To think that a boy as fair as he. 
In years whicli never more may be, 
By that same fount, in that same wood, 
The like sweet fancies had pursued ; 
And that a mother, lost like her, 
Had mournfully sate watching him. 
Then all the scene was wont to swim 
Through the mist of a burning tear. 

For many months had Helen known 
This scene ; and now she thither 

turned 
Her footsteps, not alone. 
The friend whose falsehood she had 

mourned. 
Sate with her on that seat of stone. 
Silent they sate ; for evening. 
And the power its glimpses bring 
Had, with one awful shadow, quelled 
The passion of their grief. They sate 
With linked hands, for unrepelled 
Had Helen taken Rosalind's. 
Like the autumn wind, when it unbinds 
The tangled locks of the nightshade's 

hair. 
Which is twined in the sultry summer 

air 
Round the walls of an outworn sepul- 
chre. 
Did the voice of Helen, sad and sweet. 
And the sound of her heart that ever 

beat, 
As with sighs and words she breathed 

on her. 
Unbind the knots of her friend's de- 
spair. 
Till her thoughts were free to float and 

flow ; 
And from her laboring bosom now. 
Like the bursting of a prisoned flame. 
The voice of a long-pent sorrow came. 



I saw the dark earth fall upon 
The coffin ; and I saw the stone 
Laid over him whom this cold breast 
Had pillowed to his nightly rest ! 
Thou knowest not, thou canst not know 
My agony. Oh ! I could not weep : 



i 



The sources whence such blessings flow 
Were not to be approacht by me ! 
But I could smile, and I could sleep, 
Though with a self-accusing heart. 
In morning's light, in evening's gloom, 
I watcht,— and would not thence de- 
part — 
My husband's unlamented tomb. 
My children knew their sire was gone, • 
But when I told them,—" he is dead," — W 
They laught aloud in frantic glee, i 
They claspt their hands and leapt about 
Answering each other's ecstasy 
With many a prank and merry shout. 
But I sat silent and alone. 
Wrapt in the mock of mourning weed. 

They laught, for he was dead : but I 
Sate with a hard and tearless eye. 
And with a heart which would deny 
The secret joy it could not quell. 
Low muttering o'er his loathed name ; 
Till from that self-contention came ] 

Remorse where sin was none ; a hell 
Which in pure spirits should not dwell. 
I'll tell thee truth. He was a man 
Hard, selfish, loving only gold. 
Yet full of guile : his pale eyes ran 
With tears, which each some falsehood 

told. 
And oft his smooth and bridled tongue 
Would give the lie to his flushing 

cheek : 
He was a coward to the strong : 
He was a tyrant to the weak. 
On whom his vengeance he would 

wreak : 
For scorn, whose arrows search the 

heart. 
From many a stranger's eye would 

dart. 
And on his memory cling, and follow 
His soul to its home .so cold and hollow. 
He was a tyrant to the weak. 
And we were such, alas the day ! 
Oft, when my little ones at play, 
Were in youth's natural lightness gay. 
Or if they listened to some tale 
Of traveller.s, or of fairy land,— 
When the light from the wood-fire's 

dying brand 
Flasht on their faces,— if they heard 
Or thought they heard upon the stair 
His footstep, the suspended word 
Died on my lips : we all grew pale : 
The babe at my bosom was husht with 

fear 
If it thought it heard its father near ; 
And my two wild boys would near my 

knee 
Cling, cowed and cowering fearfully. 



KOSAMND AND HELEN. 



151 



rj tell thee truth : I loved another. 

Hb name in niv oar was ever ringing, 

His form to my brain was ever cling- 
ing : 

Ye; if "some stranger breathed that 
, name, , , . 

My lips turned -white, and my heart 
beat fast : , , , 

My nights were once haunted by dreams 
of flame. 

My 'lays were dim in the shadow cast 

Bv the memory of the same ! 

Day and night, day and night. 

He was mv breath and life and light, 

For three short years, which soon were 
past. 

On the fourth, my gentle mother 

Led me to the shrine, to be 

His sworn bride eternally. 

A.nd now we stood on the altar stair, 

When my father came from a distant 
land, 

And with a loud and fearful cry 

Rusht between us suddenly. 

I saw the stream of his thin gray hair, 

I saw his lean and lifted hand. 

And heard his words,— and live ! Oh 

Wherefore do I live ?— " Hold, hold !" 
He cried,— •' I tell thee 'tis her brother ! 
Thy mother, bov, beneath the sod 
Of yon churchyard rests in her shroud 

so cold ; 
I am now weak, and pale, and old : 
We were once dear to one another, 
I and that corpse '. Thou art our 

child!" , ., , 

Then with a laugh both long and wild 
The youth upon the pavement fell : 
They found him dead ! All looked on 

me, 
The spasms of my despair to see : 
But I was calm. I went away : 
I was clammy-cold like clay ! 
I did not weep : I did not speak : 
But day by day, week after week, 
I walkt about like a corpse alive ! 
Alas ! sweet friend, you must believe 
This heart is stone : it did not break. 

My father lived a little while, 
But all might see that he was dying, 
He smiled witli such a woeful smile ! 
When he was in the churchyard lying 
Among the worms, we grew quite poor, 
So that no one would give us broad : 
My mother lookt at me, and said 
Faint words of cheer, which only 

meant 
That she could die and be content ; 
So I went forth from the same church 

door 



To another husband's bed. 

And this was he who died at last. 

When weeks and months and years 

had past, 
Through which I firmly did fulfil 
My duties, a devoted wife. 
With the stern step of vanquisht will, 
Walking beneath the night of life. 
Whose hours extinguisht, like slow rain 
Falling for ever, pain by pain. 
The very hope of death's dear rest ; 
Which, since the heart within my 

breast 
Of natural life was dispossest. 
Its strange sustainer there had been. 
When flowers were dead, and grass 

was green 
Upon my mother's grave,— that mother 
Whom to outlive, and cheer, and make 
My wan eyes glitter for her sake, 
Was mv vowed task, the single care 
Which once gave life to my despair,— 
When she was a thing that did not stir 
And the crawling worms were crad- 
ling her 
To a sleep more deep and so more sweet 
Than a baby's rockt on its nurse's knee, 
I lived : a living pulse then beat 
Beneath my heart that awakened me. 
What was this pulse so warm and free ? 
Alas ! I knew it could not be 
My own dull blood: 't was like a 

thought 
Of liquid love, that spread and wrought 
Under my bosom and in my brain. 
And crept with the blood through every 

vein : 
And hour by hour, day after day. 
The wonder could not charm away. 
But laid in sleep, my wakeful pain. 
Until I knew it was a child. 
And then I wept. For long, long years 
These frozen eyes had shed no tears : 
But now— 't was the season fair and 

mild 
When April has wept itself to May : 
I sate through the sweet sunny day 
By my window bowered round with 

leaves, . , . 

And down my cheeks the quick tears 

Like twinkling rain drops from the 

When wariu spring showers are pass- 
ing o'er : 

Helen, none can ever tell 

The joy it was to weep once more ! 

1 wept to think how hard it were 
To kill my babe, and take from it 
The sense of light, and the warm air, 
And my own fond and tender care, 



162 



KOSALIND AND HELEN. 



And love and smiles ; ere I knew yet 
That these for it might, as for me, 
Be the masks of a grinning mockery. 
And haply, I would dream, 't were 

sweet 
To feed it from my faded breast. 
Or mark my own heart's restless beat 
Rock it to its untroubled rest, 
And watch the growing soul beneath 
Dawn in faint smiles ; and hear its 

breath, 
Half interrupted by calm sighs. 
And search the depth of its fair eyes 
For long departed memories ! 
And sol lived till that sweet load 
Was lightened. Darkly forward 

flowed 
The stream of years, and on it bore 
Two shapes of gladness to my sight ; 
Two other babes, delightful more 
In my lost soul's abandoned night. 
Than their own country ships may be 
Sailing towards wrecked mariners, 
Who cling to the rock of a wintry sea. 
For each, as it came, brought soothing 

tears, 
And a loosening warmth, as each one 

lay 
Sucking the sullen milk away. 
About my frozen heart, did play, 
And weaned it, oh how painfully ! — 
As they themselves were weaned each 

one 
From that sweet food,— even from the 

thirst 
Of death, and nothingness, and rest. 
Strange inmate of a living breast ! 
Which all that I had undergone 
Of grief and shame, since she, who first 
The gates of that dark refuge closed, 
Came to my sight, and almost burst 
The seal of 'that Lethean spring ; 
But these fair shadows interposed : 
For all delights are shadows now ! 
And from my brain to my dull brow 
The heavy tears gather and flow : 
I cannot speak : Oh let me weep ! 



The tears which fell from her wan eyes 
Glimmered among the moonlight dew : 
Her deep hard sobs and heavy sighs 
Their echoes in the darkness threw. 
When she grew calm, she thus did keep 
The tenor of her tale : 

He died : 
I know not how : he was not old, 
If age be numbered by its years : 
But he was bowed and bent with fears, 
Pale with a quenchless thirst of gold. 
Which, like fierce fever left him weak ; 
And his strait lip and bloated cheek 



Were warpt in spasms by hollow 

sneers ; 
And selfish cares with barren plougli, 
Not age, had lined his narrow brow, 
And foul and cruel thoughts, which 

feed 
Upon the withering life within. 
Like vipers on some poisonous weed. 
Whether his ill were death or sin 
None knew, until he died indeed. 
And then men owned they were the 

same. 
Seven days within my chamber lay 
That corse, and my babes made holi- 
day : 
At last, I told them what is death : 
The eldest, with a kind of shame, 
Came to my knees with silent breath, 
And sate awe-stricken at my feet ; 
And soon the others left their play. 
And sate there too. It is unmeet 
To shed on the brief flower of youth 
The withering knowledge of the grave; 
From me remorse then rung that truth. 
I could not bear the joy which gave 
Too just a response to mine own. 
In vain. I dared not feign a groan ; 
And in their artless looks I saw. 
Between the mists of fear and awe, 
That my own thought was theirs ; and 

they 
Expresst it not in w^ords, but said, 
Each in its heart, how every day 
Will pass in happy work and play. 
Now he is dead and gone away. 



After the funeral all our kin 
Assembled, and the will was read. 
My friend, I tell thee, even the dead 
Have strength, their putrid shrouds 

within. 
To blast and torture. Those who live 
Still fear the living, but a corse 
Is merciless, and Power doth give 
To such pale tyi-ants half the spoil 
He rends from those who groan and 

toil, 
Because they blush not with remorse 
Among their crawling worms. Behold, 
I have no child ! my tale grows old 
With grief, and staggers : let it reach 
The limits of my feeble speech, 
And languidly at length recline 
On the brink of its own grave and 

mine. 

Thou knowest what a thing is Poverty 
Among the fallen on evil days : 
'T is Crime, and Fear, and Infamy, 
And houseless Want in frozen ways 
Wandering ungarmented, and Pain, 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



153 



^.ad, worse than all, that inward stain, 
?oul Self-contempt, which drowns in 

sneers 
Z'outh's starlight smile, and makes its 

?irst like hot gall, then dry forever ! 
kni well thou knowest a mother never 
lould doom her children to this ill, 
4.nd well he knew the same. The will 
mported, that if e'er again 
: sought my children to behold, 
i)r in'my birthplace did remain 
Beyond 'three davs, whose hours were 

told. 
They should inherit naught : and he, 
To whom next came their patrimony, 
\ sallow lawyer, cruel and cold, 
A.ye watched me, as the will was road, 
VVlth eyes askance, which sought to see 
riie secrets of my agony ; 
And with close lips and anxious brow 
Stood canvassing still to and fro 
The chance of my resolve, and all 
The dead man's caution just did call ; 
For in that killing lie 't was said- 
She is adulterous, and doth hold 
[n secret that the Christian creed 
Is false, and therefore is much need 
That I should have a care to save 
My children from eternal fire." 
Friend, he was sheltered by the grave. 
And therefore dared to be a liar ! 
In truth, the Indian on the pyre 
Of her dead husband, half consumed. 
As well might there be false, as I 
To those abhorred embraces doomed, 
Far worse than fire's brief agony. 
As to the Christian creed, if true 
Or false, I never questioned it ; 
I took it as the vulgar do : 
Nor mv vext soul had leisure yet 
To doubt the things men say, or deem 
That they are other than they seem. 

All present who those crimes did hear. 
In feigned or actual scorn and feai-, 
Men, women, children, slunk away. 
Whispering with self contented pride, 
Which half suspects its own base lie. 
I spoke to none, nor did abide. 
But silently I went my way, 
Nor noticed I where joyously 
Sate my two younger babes at play. 
In the court^yard through which I past ; 
But went with footsteps firm and fast 
Till I came to the brink of the ocean 

green. 
And there, a woman with gray hairs. 
Who had my mother's servant been. 
Kneeling, with many tears and 

prayers. 
Made me accept a purse of gold, 



Half of the earnings she had kept 
To refuge her when weak and old. 
With woe, which never sleeps or slept, 
I wander now. 'T is a vain thought— 
But on yon alp, whose snowy head 
Mid the azure air is islanded, 
(We see it o'er the flood of cloud. 
Which sunrise from its eastern caves 
Drives, wrinkling into golden waves. 
Hung with its precipices proud, 
From that gray stone where first we 

met) 
There—now who knows the dead feel 

naught ?— 
Should be my grave : for he who yet 
Is my soul's soul, once said : '"Twere 

sweet 
Mid stars and lightnings to abide, 
And winds and lulling snows, that beat 
With their soft flakes the mountain 

wide. 
When weary meteor lamps repose. 
And languid storms their pinions close: 
And all things strong and bright and 

pure. 
And ever during, aye endure : 
Who knows, if one were buried there. 
But these things might our spirits 

make. 
Amid the all-surrounding air, 
Their own eternity partake ?" 
Then 't was a wild and playful saying 
At which Ilaught, or seemed to laugh : 
They were his words ; now heed my 

praying. 
And let them be my epitaph. 
Thy memory for a term may be 
My monument. Wilt remember me ? 
I know thou wilt, and canst forgive 
Whilst in this erring world to live 
My soul disdained not, that I thought 
Its lying forms were worthy aught 
And much less thee. 



HELEN. 

O speak not so. 
But come to me and pour thy woe 
Into this heart, full though it be. 
Aye overflowing with its own : 
I thought that grief had severed me 
From all beside who weep and groan ; 
Its likeness upon earth to be. 
Its express image ; but thou art 
More wretched. Sweet ! we will not 

part 
Henceforth, if death be not division ; 
If so, the dead feel no contrition. 
But wilt thou— hear, since last we 

parted 
All that has left me broken-hearted ? 



154 



KOSALIND AND HELEN. 



ROSALIND. 

Yes, speak. The faintest stars are 

scai'cely shorn 
Of their thin beams by that delusive 

morn 
Which sinks again in darkness, like the 

light 
Of early love, soon lost in total night. 

HELEN. 

Alas ! Italian winds are mild, 

But my bosom is cold— wintry cold— 

When the warm air weaves, among the 

fresh lejives. 
Soft music, my poor brain is wild, 
And I am weak like a nursling child, 
Though my soul with grief is gray and 

old. 



Weep not at thine own words, though 

they must make 
Me weep. What is thy tale ? 

HELEN. 

I fear 't will shake 
Thy gentle heart with tears. Thou 

well 
Rememberest when we met no more, 
And, though I dwelt with Lionel, 
That friendless caution pierced me sore 
With grief ; a wound my spirit bore 
Indignantly ; but when he died 
With him lay dead both hope and pride. 

Alas ! all hope is buried now. 
But then men dreamed the aged earth 
Was laboring in that mighty birth, 
Which many a poet and a sage 
Has aye foreseen— the happy age 
When truth and love shall dwell below 
Among the works and ways of men ; 
Which on this world not power but will 
Even now is wanting to fulfil. 

Among mankind what thence bef el 
Of strife, how vain, is known too well ; 
When liberty's dear paean fell 
Mid murderous howls. To Lionel, 
Though of great wealth and lineage 

high. 
Yet thro' those dungeon walls there 

came 
Thy thrilling light, O Liberty ! 
And as the meteor's midnight flame 
Startles the dreamer, sun-like truth 
Flasht on his visionary youth. 
And filled him, not with love, but faith. 
And hope, and courage mute in death ; 



, For love and life in him were twins. 
Born at one birth : in every other I 
First life, then love, its course begins, I 
Though they be children of one mother I 
And .so thro' this dark world they fleetij 
Divided, till in death they meet : 1 

But he loved all things ever. Then 
He past amid the strife of men. 
And stood at the throne of arme( 

power 
Pleading for a world of woe : 
Secure as one on a rock-built tower 
O'er the wrecks which the surge trail. 

to and fro. 
Mid the passions wild of human kind 
He stood, like a spirit calming them ; 
For, it was said, his words could bind 
Like music the lulled crowd, and stemi] 
That torrent of unquiet dream, | 

Which mortals truth and reason deem,it 
But is revenge, and fear, and pride. 
Joyous he was ; and hope and peace 
On all who heard him did abide. 
Raining like dew from his sweet talk, 
As where the evening star may walk 
Along the brink of the gloomy seas. 
Liquid mists of splendor quiver. 
His very gestures toucht to tears 
The unpersuaded tyrant, never 
So moved before : his presence stung 
The torturers with their victim's pain, , 
And none knew how ; and thro' their 

ears, 
The subtle witchcraft of his tongue 
Unlockt the hearts of those who keep 
Gold, the world's bond of slavery. 
Men wondered, and some sneered to .see 
One sow what he could never reap : 
For he is rich, they said, and young, 
And might drink from the depths of 

luxury. 
If he seeks fame, fame never crowned 
The champion of a trampled creed : 
If he seeks power, power is enthroned 
Mid ancient rights and wrongs, to feed 
Which hungry wolves with praise and 

spoil. 
Those who would sit near power must 

toil ; 
And such, there sitting, all may see. 
What seeks he ? All that others seek 
He casts away, like a vile weed 
Which the sea casts unreturningly. 
That poor and hungry men should break 
The laws which wreak them toil and 

scorn, 
We understand ; but Lionel 
We know is rich and nobly born. 
So wondered they : yet all men loved 
Young Lionel, though few approved ; 
All but the priests, whose hatred fell 
Like the unseen blight of a smiling day, 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



The witheriujjf honey dew, which clings 
Under tlie bright green buds of May, 
Whilst they inifola their emerald 

wings : 

For he made verses wild and queer 
On the strange creeds priest shold so 

dear, 

Because t hey bring them land and gold. 
Jf devils and saints and all such gear, 
He made tales which whoso heard or 

read 

Would laugh till he were almost dead. 
io this grew a proverb: "Do n't get 

old 
Pill Lionel's 'Banquet in Hell' you 

hear, 
\nd then you will laugh yourself young 

again." 
^o the priests hated him, and he 
Repaid their hate with cheerful glee. 

Vh, smiles and joyance quickly died, 
<\>r public hope grew pale and dim 
n an altered time and tide, 
Vnd in its wa.sting withered him, 
Vs a summer flower that blows too soon 
3roops in the smile of the waning 

moon, 
^Vhen it scatters through an April 

night 

The frozen dews of wrinkling blight, 
^one now hoped more. Gray Power 

was seated 
Safely on her ancestral throne ; 
\nd Faith, the Python, undefeated, 
Cven to its blood-stained steps dragged 

on 

ler foul and wounded train, and men 
.Vere trampled and deceived again, 
^nd words and shows again could bind 
?he wailing tribes of human kind 
n scorn and famine. Fire and blood 
lairod round the raging multitude, 
.'o fields remote by tyrants sent 
'o be the scorned instrument 
Vith which they drag from miiaes of 

gore 

^he chains their slaves yet ever wore : 
V.nd in the streets men met each other, 
Vnd by old altars and in halls, 
knd smiled again at festivals. 
Jut each man found in his heart's 

brother 

'old cheer ; for all, though half de- 
ceived, 

?he outworn creeds again believed, 
\.nd the same round anew began, 
.Vhich the weary world yet ever ran. 

ilany then wept, not tears, but gall 
/Vithin their hearts, like drops which 
fall 



Wasting the fountain-stone away. 
And in that dark and evil day 
Did all desires and thoughts, that claim 
Men's care— ambition, friendship, 

fame. 
Love, hope, though hope was now de- 
spair- 
Indue the colors of this change. 
As from the all-surrounding air 
The earth takes hues obscure and 

strange. 
When storm and earthquake linger 
there. 

And so, my friend, it then befel 

To many, most to Lionel, 

Whose hope was like the life of youth 

Within him, and when dead, became 

A spirit of unresting flame, 

Which goaded him in his distress 

Over the world's vast wilderness. 

Three years he left his native land. 

And on the fourth, when he returned, 

None knew him : he was stricken deep 

With some disease of mind, and turned 

Into aught unlike Lionel. 

On him, on whom, did he pause in 

sleep, 
Serenest smiles were wont to keep, 
And, did he wake, a winged band 
Of bright persuasions, which had fed 
On his sweet lips and liquid eyes, 
Kept then- swift pinions half out- 
spread, 
To do on men his least command ; 
On him, whom once 't was paradise 
Even to behold, now misery lay : 
In his own heart 't was merciless. 
To all things else none may express 
Its innocence and tenderness. 

' T was said that he had refuge sought 
In love from his unquiet thought 
In distant lands, and been deceived 
By some strange show ; for there were 

found. 
Blotted with tears as those relieved 
Bj' their own words are wont to do. 
These mournful verses on the ground. 
By all who read them blotted too. 

" How am I changed ! my hopes were 
once like fire : 
I loved, and I believed that life was 
love. 

How am I lost ! on wings of swift de- 
sire 
Among Heaven's winds my spirit 
once did move. 

I slept, and silver dreams did aye in- 
spire 



156 



ROSALAXD AED HELEN. 



My liquid sleep : I wo'.ce, and did ap- 
prove 

All nature to mj' heart, and thought to 
make 

A paradise of earth for one sweet sake. 

" I love, but I believe in love no more. 
I feel desire, but hope not. O, from 

sleep 
Most vainly must my weary brain im- 
plore 
Its long lost flattery now : I wake to 

weep, 
And sit through the long day gnawing 

the core 
Of my bitter heart, and, like a miser, 

keep, 
Since none in what I feel take pain or 

pleasure,— 
To my own soul its self-consuming 

treasure." 

He dwelt beside me near the sea : 
And oft in evening did we meet. 
When the waves, beneath the star- 
light, flee 
O'er the yellow sands with silver feet, 
And talkt : our talk was sad and 

sweet, 
Till slowly from his mien there past 
The desolation which it spoke ; 
And smiles, — as when the lightning's 

b'ast 
Has parcht some heaven-delighting oak, 
The next spring shows leaves pale and 

rare. 
But like flowers delicate and fair. 
On its rent, boughs— again arrayed 
His countenance in tender light : 
His words grew subtile fire, which 

made 
The air his hearers breathed delight : 
His motions, like the winds, were free. 
Which bend the bright grass grace- 
fully. 
Then fade away in circlets faint : 
And winged hope, on which upborne 
His soul seemed hovering in his eyes, 
Like some bright spirit newly born 
Floating amid the sunny skies. 
Sprang forth from his rent heart 

anew. 
Yet o'er his talk, and looks, and mien. 
Tempering their loveliness too keen. 
Past woe its shadow backward threw. 
Till like an exhalation, spread 
From flowers half drunk with evening 

dew. 
They did become infectious : sweet 
And subtile mists of sense and 
thought : 



Which wrapt us soon, when we migl 

meet. 

Almost from our own looks and augh 
The wide world holds. And so, hi 

mind 
Was healed, while mine grew sic 

with fear : 
For ever now his health declined. 
Like some frail bark which cannot bea 
The impulse of an altered wind. 
Though prosperous : and my heai 

grew full 
Mid its new joy of a new care : 
For his cheek became, not pale, 

fair, 
As rose-o'ershadowed lilies are ; 
And soon his deep and sunny hair, 
In this alone less beautiful. 
Like grass in tombs grew wild an 

rare. 
The blood in his translucent veins 
Beat, not like animal life, but love 
Seemed now its sullen springs t 

move. 

When life had failed, and all its pains 
And sudden sleep would seize him oft 
Like death, so calm, but that a tear, 
His pointed eyelashes between. 
Would gather in the light serene 
Of smiles, whose lustre bright and sol 
Beneath lay undulating there. 
His breath'was like inconstant flame, 
As eagerly it went and came ; 
And I hung o'er him in his sleep, 
Till, like an image in the lake 
Which rains disturb, my tears woul 

break 
The shadow of that slumber deep : 
Then he would bid me not to weep. 
And say with flattery false, yet swee' 
That death and he could never meet, 
If I would never part with him. 
And so we loved, and did unite 
All that in us was yet divided : 
For when he said, that many a rite. 
By men to bind but once provided, 
Could not be shared by him and me, 
Or they would kill him in their glee, 
I shuddered, and then laughing said- 
" We will have rites our faith to bine 
But our church shall be the starr 

night, ^^ 

Our altar the grassy earth outspreat 
And our priest the muttering wind." 



'Twas sunset as I spoke : one star 
Had scarce burst forth, when froi 

afar 
The ministers of misrule sent. 
Seized upon Lionel, and bore 
His chained limbs to a dreary tower, 



ROSA LI^D A2SID HELEN. 



157 



In the midst of a city vast and wide. 
For he, they said, from his mind had 

bent 

Against their pods keen blasphemy, 
For which, though his soul must 

roasted be 
In hell's red lakes immortally. 
Yet even on earth must he abide 
The ^'engeance of their slaves : a trial, 
I think, men call it. What avail 
Are prayers and tears, which chase 

denial 

From the fierce savage, nurst in hate ? 
"What the knit soul that pleading and 

pale 
Makes wan the quivering cheek, which 

late 

It painted with tts own delight 'f 
We were divided. As I could, 
I stilled the tingling of my blood, 
And followed him in their despite, 
As a widow follows, pale and wild, 
The murderers and corse of her only 

child ; 

And when we came to the prison door 
And I prayed to share his dungeon 

floor 
With prayers which rarely have been 

spurned. 
And when men drove me forth and I 
Stared with blank frenzy on the skj', 
A farewell look of love he turned. 
Half calming me ; then gazed awhile. 
As if thro' that black and massy pile. 
And thro' the crowd around him there. 
And thro' the dense and murky air, 
And the thronged streets, he did espy 
What poets know and prophesy ; 
And said, with voice that made them 

shiver 
And clung like music in my brain. 
And which the mute walls spoke again 
Prolonging it with deepened strain : 
"Fear not the tyrants shall rule for- 
ever, 
Or the priests of the bloody faith ; 
They stand on the brink of that mighty 

river. 
Whose waves they have tainted with 

death : 
It is fed from the depths of a thousand 

dells, 
Around them it foams, and rages, and 

swells, 
And their swords and their sceptres I 

floating see. 
Like wrecks in the surge of eternity." 



I dwelt beside the prison gate, 
And the strange crowd that out and 
in 



Past, some, no doubt, with mine own 

fate. 
Might have fretted me with its cease- 
less din, 
But the fever of care was louder 

within. 
Soon, but too late, in penitence 
Of fear, his foes releast him thence ; 
I saw his thin and languid form. 
As leaning on the jailer's arm, 
Whose hardened eyes grew moist tlie 

while. 
To meet his mute and faded smile, 
And hear his words of kind farewell, 
He tottered forth from his damp cell. 
Many had never wept before, 
Fi'om whom fast tears then gusht and 

fell: 
Many will relent no more. 
Who sobbed like infants then : aye, all 
Who thronged the prison's stony hall, 
The rulers or the slaves of law. 
Felt with a new surprise and awe 
That they were humin, till strong 

shame 
Made them again become the same. 
The prison blood-hound;:, huge and 

grim. 
From human looks the infection 

caught. 
And fondly croucht and fawned on 

him ; 
And men have heard the prisoners say, 
Who in their rotting dungeons lay. 
That from that hour, throughout one 

day. 
The fierce despair and hate which kept 
Their trampled bosoms almost slept. 
When, like twin vultures, they hung 

feeding 
On each heart's wound, wide torn and 

bleeding, 
Because their jailer's rule, they 

thought, 
Grew merciful, like a parent's sway. 

I know not how, but we were free : 

And Lionel sate alone with me. 

As {he carriage drove thro' the streets 

apace ; 
And we lookt upon each other's face ; 
And the blood in our fingers inter- 
twined 
Ran like the thoughts of a single mind, 
As the swift emotions went and came 
Thro' the veins of each united frame. 
So thro' the long, long streets wo past 
Of the million-peopled City vast ; 
Which is that desert, where each one 
Seeks his mate yet is alone. 
Beloved and sought and mourned of 
none : 



158 



llOSALIND AND HELEN. 



Until the clear blue sky was seen, 
And the grassy meadows bright an I 

green, 
And then I sunk in his embrace, 
Enclosing there a mighty space 
Of love : and so we traveiled on 
By woods, and fields of yellow flowers, 
And towns, and villages, and towers, 
Day after day of happy hours. 
It was the azure time of June, 
When the skies are deep in the stain- 
less noon, 
And the warm and fitful breezes shake 
The fresh green leaves of the hedge- 
row brier. 
And there were odors then to make 
The very breath we did respire 
A liquid element, whereon 
Our spirits, like delighted things 
That wiilk the air on subtle wings. 
Floated and mingled far away. 
Mid the v/arm winds of the sunny day. 
And when the evening star came forth 
Above the curve of the new bent moon, 
And light and sound ebbed fi'om the 

earth. 
Like the tide of the full and weary sea 
To the depths of its tranquillity. 
Our natures to its own repose 
Did the earth's breathless sleep attune: 
Like flowers, which on each other 

close 
Their languid leaves when daylight's 

gone, 
We lay, till new emotions came, 
Which seemed to make each mortal 

frame 
One soul of interwoven flame, 
A life in life, a second birth 
In worlds diviner far than earth, 
Which, like two strains of harmony 
That mingle in the silent sky 
Then slowly disunite, past by 
And left the tenderness of tears, 
A soft oblivion of all fears, 
A sweet sleep : so we travelled on 
Till we came to the home of Lionel, 
Among the mountains wild and lone. 
Beside the hoary western sea, 
Which near the verge of the echoing 

shore 
The massy forest shadowed o'er. 

The ancient steward, with hair all 

hoar. 
As we alighted, wept to see 
His master changed so fearfully ; 
And the old man's sobs did waken me 
From my dream of unremaining glad- 
ness ; 
The truth flasht o'er me like quick 
madness 



When I lookt, and saw that there was 

death 
On Lionel : yet day by day 
He lived, till fear grew hope and faith, 
j And in my soul I dared to say, 
Nothing so bright can pass away : 
Death is dark, and foul, and dull, 
But he is — O how beautiful ! 
Yet day by day he grew more weak, 
And his sweet voice, when he might 

speak. 
Which ne'er was loud, became more 

low; 
And the light which flasht through his 

waxen cheek 
Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which 

flow 
From sunset o'er the Alpine snow : 
And death seemed not like death in 

him. 
For the spirit of life o'er every limb 
Lingered, a mist of sense and thought. 
When the summer wind faint odors 

brought 
From mountain flowers, even as it past 
His cheek would change, as the noon- 
day sea 
Which the dying breeze sweeps fit- 
fully. 
If but a cloud the sky o'ercast. 
You might see his color come and go, 
And the softest strain of music made 
Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade 
Amid the dew of his tender eyes ; 
And the breath, with intermitting flow. 
Made his pale lips quiver and part. 
You might hear the beatings of his 

heart. 
Quick, but not strong ; and with my 

tresses 
When oft he playfully would bind 
In the bowers of mossy lonelinesses 
His neck, and win me so to mingle 
In the sweet depth of woven caresses. 
And our faint limbs were intertwined, 
Alas ! the unquiet life did tingle 
From mine own heart through every 

vein. 
Like a captive in dreams of liberty, 
Who beats the walls of his stony cell. 
But his, it seemed already free, 
Like the shadow of fii'e surrounding 

me ! 
On my faint eyes and limbs did dwell 
That spirit as it past, till soon, 
As a frail cloud wandering o'er the 

moon, 
Beneath its light invisible, 
Is seen when it folds its gray wings 

again 
To alight on midnight's dusky plain, 
I lived and saw. and the gathering soul 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



159 



Past from beneath that strong con- 
trol, 

And I fell on a life which was sick with 
fear 

Of all the woe thitt now I bear. 



Amid a bloomless myrtle wood, 

On a green and sea-girt promontory, 

Not far from where we dwelt, there I 

stood ! 

In record of a sweet sad story, | 

An altar and a temple bright I 

Circled by steps, and o'er the gate I 

"Was sculptured, " To Fidelity ; " ' 

And in the shrine an image sate, j 

All veiled : but there was seen the i 

light 
Of smiles, which faintly could express ! 
A mingled pain and tenderness , 

Thro' that ethereal drapery, ; 

The left hand held the head, the ' 

right- 
Beyond the veil, beneath the skin, I 
You might see the nerves quivering ' 

within — j 

Was forcing the point of a barbed 

dart 
Into its side-convulsing heart. ! 

An unskilled hand, yet one informed j 
With genius, had the marble warmed 
With that pathetic life. This tale . 
It told : A dog had from the sea, i 

When the tide was raging fearfully, ; 
Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and 

pale, I 

Then died beside her on the sand, I 

And she that temple thence had 

planned ; 
But it was Lionel's own hand 
Had wrought the image. Each new 

moon 
That lady did, in this lone fane, 
The rites of a religion sweet. 
Whose god was in her heart and brain: 
The seasons' loveliest flowers were 

strewn 
On the marble floor beneath her feet. 
And she brought crowns of sea-buds 

white. 
Whose odor is so sweet and faint. 
And weeds, like branching chrysolite, 
Woven in devices fine and quaint, 
And tears from her brown eyes did 

stain 
The altar : need but look upon 
That dying statue, fair and wan. 
If tears should cease, to weep again : 
And rare Arabian odors came, 
Thro' the myrtle copses steaming 

thence 
From the hissing frankincense, 



Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean 

foam 
Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome. 
That ivory dome, whose azure night 
With golden stars, like heaven, was 

bright 
O'er the split cedar's pointed flame ; 
And the lady's harp would kindle there 
The melody of an old air. 
Softer than sleep ; the villagers 
Mixt their religion up with hers, 
And as they listened round, shed tears. 

One eve he led me to this fane : 
Daylight on its last purple cloud 
Was lingering gray, and soon her 

strain 
The nightingale began ; now loud, 
Climbing in circles the windless sky. 
Now dying music ; suddenly 
'T is scattered in a thousand notes. 
And now to the hushed ear it floats 
Like field-smells known in infancy. 
Then failing, soothes the air again. 
We sate within that temple lone. 
Pavilioned round with Parian stone : 
His mother's harp stood near, and oft 
I had awakened music soft 
Amid its wires : the nightingale 
Was pausing in her heaven-taught 

tale : 
"Now drain the cup," said Lionel, 
" Which the poet-bird has crowned so 

well 
With the wine of her bright and liquid 

song I 
Heardst thou not, sweet words among 
That heaven-resounding minstrelsy ? 
Heardst thou not, that those who die 
Awake in a world of ecstasy ? 
That love, when limbs are interwoven, 
And sleep, when the night of life is 

cloven, 
And thought, to the world's dim bound- 
aries clinging. 
And music, when one beloved is sing- 
ing. 
Is death ? Let us drain right joyously 
The cup which the sweet bird fills for 
me." 

He paused, and to my lips he bent 
His own : like spirit his words went 
Through all my limbs with the speed 

of fire ; 
And his keen eyes, glittering through 

mine. 
Filled me with the flame divine. 
Which in their orbs was burning far, 
Like the light of an unmeasured star. 
In the sky of midnight dark and deep : 
Yes, 't was his soul that did inspire 



160 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



Sounds, which my skill could ne'er 

awaken ; 
And first, I felt my finp:ers sweep 
The harp, and a long quivering cry 
Burst from my lips in symphony : 
The dusk and solid air was shaken, 
As swift and swifter the notes came 
From my touch, that wandered like 

quick flame. 
And from my bosom, laboring 
With some unutterable thing : 
The awful sound of my own voice 

made 
My faint lips tremble, in some mood 
Of wordless thought Lionel stood 
So pale, that even beside his cheek 
The snowy column from its shade 
Caught whiteness : yet his counte- 
nance 
Raised upward, burned with radiance 
Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light, 
Like the moon struggling thro' the 

night 
Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break 
With beams that might not be con- 
fined. 
I paused, but soon his gestures kindled 
New power, as by the moving wind 
The waves are lifted, and my song 
To low soft notes now changed and 

dwindled, 
And from the twinkling wires among. 
My languid fingers drew and flung 
Circles of life-dissolving sound. 
Yet faint : in aery rings they bound 
My Lionel, who, as every strain 
Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien 
Sunk with the sound relaxedly ; 
And slowly now he turned to me, 
As slowly faded from his face 
That awful joy : with look serene 
He was soon drawn to my embrace, 
And my wild song then died away 
In murmurs : words I dare not say, 
We mixt, and on his lips mine fed 
Till they methought felt still and cold : 
" What is it with thee, love ? " I said : 
No word, no look, no motion ! yes. 
There was a change, but spare to guess, 
Nor let that moment's hope be told. 
I lookt, — and knew that he was dead, 
And fell, as the eagle on the plain 
Falls when life deserts her brain. 
And the mortal lightning is veiled 
again. 

O that I were now dead ! but such 
(Did they not, love, demand too much, 
Those dying murmurs '?) he forbade. 
O that I once again were mad ! 
And yet, dear Rosalind, not so. 
For I would live to share thy woe. 



Sweet boy, did I forget thee too ? 
Alas, we know not what we do 
When we speak words. 

No memory more 
Is in my mind of that seashore. 
Madness came on me, and a troo^; 
Of misty shapes did seem to sit 
Beside me, on a vessel's poop, 
And the clear north wind was driv- 
ing it. 
Then I heard strange tongues, and saw 

strange flowers. 
And the stars methought grew unlike 

ours, 
And the azure sky and the stormless 

sea 
Made me believe that I had died. 
And waked in a world, which was to me 
Drear hell, though heaven to all be- 
side : 
Then a dead sleep fell on my mind. 
Whilst animal life many long years 
Had rescue from a chasm of tears ; 
And when I woke, I wept to find 
That the same lady, bright and wise. 
With silver locks and quick brown eyes, 
The mother of my Lionel, 
Had tended me in my distress. 
And died some months before. Nor less 
Wonder, but far more peace and joy 
Brought in that hour my lovely boy ; 
For through that trance my soul had 

well 
The impress of thy being kept : 
And if I waked, or if I slept. 
No doubt, though memory faithless be, 
Thy image ever dwelt on me : 
And thus, O Lionel, like thee 
Is our sweet child. 'T is sure most 

strange 
I knew not of so great a change, 
As that which gave him birth, who now 
Is all the solace of my woe. 

That Lionel great wealth had left 
By will to me, and that of all 
The ready lies of law bereft 
My child and me, might well befal. 
But let me think not of the scorn, 
Which from the meanest I have borne. 
When, for my child's beloved sake, 
I mixt with slaves, to vindicate 
The very laws themselves do make : 
Let me not say scorn is my fate. 
Lest I be proud, suifering the same 
With those who live in deathless fame. 

She ceased.—" Lo, where red morning 
thro' the wood 

Is burning o'er the dew ; '" said Rosa- 
lind. 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



161 



A-Ud with these words they rose, and 

towards the flood 
Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves 

now wind 
With equal steps and fingers inter- 
twined : 
Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the 

shore 

Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cy- 
presses 
Cleave with their dark green cones 

the silent skies. 
And with their shadows the clear 

depths below. 
And where a little terrace from its 

bowers, 

Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon- 
flowers. 
Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance 

o'er 

The liquid marble of the windless lake ; 
And where the aged forest's limbs look 

hoar. 
Under the leaves which their green 

garments make. 
They come : 't is Helen's home, and 

clean and white, 
Like one which tyrants spare on our 

own land 
In some such solitude, its casements 

bright 
Shone through their vine-leaves in the 

morning sun, 
And even within 't was scarce like 

Italy. 
And when she saw how all things there 

were planned. 
As in an English home, dim memory 
Disturbed poor Rosalind : she stood as 

one 
Whose mind is whei'e his body cannot 

be. 
Till Helen led her where her child yet 

slept, 
And .said, "Observe, that brow was 

Lionel's, 
Those lips were his, and so he ever 

kept 
One arm in sleep, pillowing his head 

with it. 
You cannot see his eyes, they are two 

wolls 
Of liquid love . let us not wake him 

yet." 
But Rosalind could bear no more, and 

wept 
A shower of burning tears, which fell 

upon 
His face, and so his opening lashes 

shone 
With tears unlike his own, as he did 

leap 

II 



In sudden wonder from his innocent 
sleep. 



So Rosalind and Helen lived together 

Thenceforth, changed in all else, yet 
friends again, 

Such as they were, when o'er the 
mountain h''ather 

They wandered in their youth, through 
sun and rain. 

And after many years, for human 
things 

Change even like the ocean and the 
wind, 

Her daughter was restored to Rosalind, 

And in their circle thence .some visit- 
ings 

Of joy mid their new calm would in- 
tervene : 

A lovely child she was, of looks serene, 

And motions which o'er things indif- 
ferent shed 

The grace and gentleness from whence 
they came. 

And Helen's boy grew with her, and 
they fed 

From the same flowers of thought, 
until each mind 

Like springs which mingle in one flood 
became. 

And in their union soon their parents 
saw 

The shadow of the peace denied to 
them. 

And Rosalind, for when the living stem 

Is cankered in its heart, the tree must 
fall. 

Died ere her time ; and with deep 
grief and awe 

The pale survivors followed her re- 
mains 

Beyond the region of dissolving rains, 

Up the cold mountain she was wont to 
call 

Her tomb ; and on Chiavenna's preci- 
pice 

They raised a p3Tamid of lasting ice. 

Whose polisht sides, ere day had yet 
begun. 

Caught the first glow of the unrisen 
sun. 

The last, when it had sunk ; and thro' 
the night 

The charioteers of Arctos wheeled 
round 

Its glittering point, as seen from 
Helen's home, 

Whose sad inhabitants each year 
would come, 

With willing steps climbing that rug- 
ged height, 



162 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



And hang long locks of hair, and gar- 
lands bound 

With amaranth flowers, which, in the 
clime's despite, 

Filled the frore air with unaccustomed 
light : 

Such flowers, as in the wintry memory 
bloom 

Of one friend left, adorned that frozen 
tomb. 

Helen, whose spirit was of softer 

mould, 
Whose sufferings too were less, death 

slowlier led 
Into the peace of his dominion cold : 
She died among her kindred, being old. 
And know, that if love die not in the 

dead 
As in the living, none of mortal kind 
Are blest, as now Helen and Rosalind. 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 
A CONVERSATION. 

niEFACE. 

Tlie meadows with fresh streams, the bees 

with thyme, 
The goats witli the green leaves of budding 

Spring, 
Are saturated not — nor Love vi'ith tears. 
Virgil's Gallus. 

Count Maddalo is a Venetian noble- 
man of ancient family and of great for- 
tune, who, without mixing much in 
the society of his countrymen, resides 
chiefly at his magnificent palace in 
that city. He is a person of the most 
consuminate genius, and capable, if he 
would direct his enei'gies to such an 
end, of becoming the redeemer of his 
degraded country. But it is his weak- 
ness to be proud : he derives, from a 
comparison of his own extraordinary 
mind with the dwarfish intellects that 
surround him, an intense apprehension 
of the nothingness of human life. His 
passions and his powers are incompar- 
ably greater than those of other men ; 
and, instead of the latter having been 
employed in curbing the former, they 
have mutually lent each other strength. 
His ambition preys upon itself, for 
want of objects which it can consider 
worthy of exertion. I say that Mad- 
dalo is proud, because I can find no 
other word to express the concentred 
and impatient feelings which consume 
him ; but it is on his own hopes and 



affections only that he seems to tram- 
ple, for in social life no human being 
can be more gentle, patient, and unas- 
suming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, 
frank, and witty. His more serious 
conversation is a sort of intoxication ; 
men are held by it as by a spell. He 
has travelled much ; and there is an 
inexpressible charm in his relation of 
his adventures in different countries. 

Julian is an Englishman of good 
family, passionately attached to those 
philosophical notions which assert the 
power of man over his own mind, and 
the immense improvements of which, 
by the extinction of certain moral su- 
perstitions, human society may be yet 
susceptible. Without concealing the 
evil in the world, he is forever speculat- 
ing how good may be made superior. He 
is a complete infidel, and a scoffer at 
all things reputed holy : and Maddalo 
takes a wicked pleasure in drawing 
out his taunts against religion. What 
Maddalo thinks on these matters is not 
exactly known. Julian, in spite of his 
heterodox opinions, is conjectured by 
his friends to possess some good quali- 
ties. How far this is possible the pious 
reader will determine. Julian is rather 
serious. 

Of the Maniac I can give no informa- 
tion. He seems, by his own account, 
to have been disappointed in love. He 
was evidently a very cultivated and 
amiable person when in his right 
senses. His story, told at length, 
might be like many other stories of the 
same kind : the unconnected exclama- 
tions of his agony will perhaps be 
found a suflBcient comment for the 
text of every heart. 



I KODE one evening with Count Mad- 
dalo 
Upon the bank of land which breaks 

the flow 
Of Adria towards Venice. A bare 

strand 
Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting 

sand. 
Matted with thistles and amphibious 

weeds. 
Such as from earth's embrace the salt 

ooze breeds, 
Is this ; an uninhabited sea-side, 
Which the lone fisher, when his nets 

are dried, 
Abandons ; and no other object breaks 
The w^aste but one dwarf tree and some 

few stakes 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



163 



Broken and unrepaired, and the tide 

makes 
A narrow space of level sand thereon 
Where 't was onr wont to ride while 

day went down. 
This ride was my delight. I love all 

waste 
And .solitary places ; where we taste 
The pleasure of believing what we see 
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to 

be: 
And such was this wide ocean, and this 

shore 
More barren than its billow-s ; and yet 

more 
Than all, with a remembered friend I 

love 
To ride as then I rode ;— for the winds 

drove 
The living spray along the sunny air 
Into our faces ; the blue heavens were 

bare, 
Stript to their depths by the awakening 

north ; 
And, from the waves, sound like de- 
light broke forth 
Harmonizing with solitude, and sent 
Into our hearts aerial merriment. 
So, as we rode, we talkt ; and the 

swift thought, 
Winging itself with laughter, lingered 

not. 
But flew from brain to brain ; such glee 

was ours, 

Charged with light memories of re- 
membered hours. 
None slow enough for sadness : till we 

came 
Homeward, which always makes the 

spirit tame. 
This day had been cheerful but cold, 

and now 

The sun was sinking, and the wind also. 
Our talk grew somewhat serious, as 

may be 

Talk interrupted with such raillery 
As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn 
Th3 thoughts it would extinguish :— 

't was forlorn, 
Yet pleasing, such as once, so poets 

tell. 

The devils held within the dales of Hell 
Concerning God, freewill and destiny ; 
Of all that earth has been or yet may 

be, 
All that vain men imagine or believe, 
Or hope can paint or sulTering may 

achieve. 
We descanted, and I (for ever still 
Is it not wise to make the best of ill ?) 
Argued against despondency, but 

pride 



Made my companion take the darker 

side. 
The sense that he was greater than his 

kind 
Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit 

blind 
By gazing on its own exceeding light. 
Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should 

alight, 
Over the horizon of the mountains.— 

Oh, 
How beautiful is sunset, when the glow 
Of Heaven descends upon a land like 

thee. 
Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy ! 
Thy mountains, seas and vineyards and 

the towers 
Of cities they encii-cle ! — it was ours 
To stand on thee, beholding it ; and 

then, 
Just where we had dismounted, the 

Count's men 
Were waiting for us with the gondola. — 
As those who pause on some delightful 

way 
Tho' bent on i^leasant pilgrimage, v.x; 

stood 
Looking upon the evening,and the flood 
Which lay between the city and the 

shore 
Paved with the image of the sky. The 

hoar 
And aery Alps towards the North ap- 
peared 
Thro' mist, a heaven-sustaining bul- 
wark reared 
Between the East and West ; and half 

the sky 
Was rooft with clouds of rich em- 
blazonry 
Dark purple at the zenith, which still 

grew 
Down the steep West into a wondrous 

hue 
Brighter than burning gold, even to 

the rent 
Where the swift sun j'et paused in his 

descent 
Among the many-folded hills : they 

were 
Those famous Euganean hills, which 

bear 
As seen from Lido thro' the harbor 

piles 
The likeness of a clump of peaked 

isles— 
And then, as if the Earth and Sea had 

been 
Dissolved into one lake of fire, were 

seen 
Those mountains towering as from 

waves of flame 



164 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



Around the vaporoixs sun, from whicti 

there came 
The inmost purple spirit of light, and 

made 
Their very peaks transparent. " Ere 

it fade," 
Said my companion, "I will show you 

soon 
Abetter station."— So, o'er the lagune 
We glided, and from that funereal bark 
I leaned, and saw the city, and could 

mark 
How from their many isles in evening's 

gloam 
Its temples and its palaces did seem 
Like fabrics of enchantment piled to 

Heaven. 
I was about to speak, when—" We are 

even 
Now at the point I meant," said Mad- 

dalo. 
And bade the gondolier! cease to row. 
"Look, Julian, on the West, and listen 

well 
If you hear not a deep and heavy bell." 
I lookt, and saw between us and the 

sun 
A building on an island ; such a one 
As age to age might add, for uses vile, 
A windowless, deformed and dreary 

pile ; 
And on the top an open tower, where 

hung 
A bell, which in the radiance swayed 

and swung ; 
We could just hear its hoarse and iron 

tongue : 
The broad sun sunk behind it, and it 

tolled 
In .strong and black relief.—" What we 

behold 
Shall be the madhouse and its belfry 

tower," 
Said Maddalo, "and ever at this hour 
Those who may cross the water, hear 

that bell 
Which calls the maniacs each one from 

his cell 
To vespers."—" As much skill as need 

to pray 
In thanks or hope for their dark lot 

have they 
To their stern maker," I replied. "O 

ho ! 
You talk as in years past," said Mad- 
dalo. 
«"T is strange men change not. You 

were ever still 
Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel, 
A wolf for the meek lambs— if you 

can't swim 
Peware of Providence." I lookt on him, 



But the gay smile had faded in his eyei 
"And such," — he cried, "is our mor- 
tality. 
And this must be the emblem and the 

sign 
Of what should be eternal and divine !^ 
And like that black and dreary bell, the 

soul 
Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, 

must toll 
Our thoughts and our desires to meet 

below 
Round the rent heart and pray — as 

madmen do 
For what ? they know not, till the 

night of death 
As sunset that strange vision, severeth 
Our memory from itself, and us from 

all 
We sought and yet were baffled." I 

recal 
The sense of what he said, altho' I mar 
The force of his expressions. The 

broad star 
Of day meanwhile had simk behind the 

hill, 
And the black bell became invisible. 
And the red tower looked gray, and all 

between 
The churches, ships and palaces were 

seen 
Huddled in gloom ;— into the purple 

sea 
The orange hues of heaven sunk si- 
lently. 
We hardly spoke, and .soon the gondola 
Conveyed me to my lodgings by the 

way. 
The following morn was rainy, cold 

and dim 
Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him, 
And whilst I waited with his child I 

played ; 
A. lovelier toy sweet Nature never 

made, 
A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle be- 
ing, 
Graceful without design, and unfore- 

seeing. 
With eyes— oh speak not of her eyes ! 

—which seem 
Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet 

gleam 
With such deep meaning, as we never 

see 
But in the human ^-ountenance. With 

me 
She was a special favorite : I had nurst 
Her fine and feeble hmbs when shtt' 

came first 
To this bleak world : and she yeti 

seemed to know 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



165 



On second sight her ancient playfel- 
low, 
Less changed than she was by six 

months or so ; 
For after her first shyness was worn 

out 
■\Ve sate tliere, rolling billiard balls 

about, 
When the Count entered. Salutations 

past ; 
"The word you spoke last night 

might well have cast 
A darkness on my spirit — if man be 
The passive thing you say, I should 

not see 
Much harm in the religions and old 

saws 
(Tho' I may never own such leaden 

laws) 
Which break a teachless nature to the 

yoke : 
Mine is another faith "—thus much I 

spoke 
And noting he replied not, added : 

"See 
This lovelj' child, blithe, innocent and 

free, 
She spends a happy time with little 

care 
While we to such sick thoughts sub- 
jected are 
As came on von last night.— It is our 

will 
Which thus enchains us to permitted 

ill- 
We might be otherwi.se — we might be 

all 
We dream of, happy, high, majestical. 
Where is the love, beauty, and truth 

we seek 
But in our mind ? and if we were not 

weak 
Should we be less in deed than in 

desire ? " 
"Ay, if we were not weak— and we 

aspire 
How vainly to be strong?" said Mad- 

dalo : 
" You talk Utopia." "It remains to 

know," 
I then rejoined, "and those who try 

may find 
How strong the chains arc which our 

spirit bind ; 
Brittle perchance as straw . . . AVeare 

assured 
Much may be conquered, much may be 

endured 
Of what degrades and crushes us. We 

know 
That we have power over ourselves to 

do 



And suffer— what, we know not till we 
try ; 

But something nobler than to live and 

die- 
So taught those kings of old philoso- 
phy. 

Who reigned, before Religion made 
men blind ; 

And those who suffer with their suffer- 
ing kind 

Yet feel their faith, religion." "My 
dear friend," 

Said Maddalo, " my judgment will not 
bend 

To your opinion, tho' I think you might 

Make such a system refutation-tight 

As far as words go. I knew one like 
you 

Who to this city came some months 
ago. 

With whom I argued in this sort, and 
he 

Is now gone mad, —and so he answered 
me,— 

Poor fellow ! But if you would like to 
go 

We'll visit him, and his wild talk will 
show 

How vain are such aspiring theories." 

" I hope to prove the induction other- 
wise, 

And that a want of that true theory, 
still, 

Which seeks a ' soul of goodness ' in 
things ill. 

Or in himself or others, has thus 
bowed 

His being— there are some by nature 
proud. 

Who patient in all else demand but 
this— 

To love and be beloved with gentle- 
ness ; 

And being scorned, what wonder if 
they die 

Some living death ? this is not destiny 

But man's own wilful ill." 

As thus I spoke 

Servants announced the gondola, and 
we 

Through the fast-falling rain and high- 
wrought sea 

Sailed to the island where the mad- 
house stands. 

We disembarkt. The clap of tortured 
hands. 

Fierce yells and bowlings and lament- 
ings keen. 

And laughter where complaint had 
merrier been, 

Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blas- 
pheming prayers 



J 66 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



Accosted us. We climbed the oozy 

stairs 
Into an old courtyard. I heard on 

high, 
Then, fragments of most touching 

melody, 
But looking up saw not the singer 

there. 
Through the bla'.^k bars in the tempes- 
tuous air 
I saw, like weeds on a wreckt palace 

growing. 
Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, 

and flowing, 
Of those who on a sudden were be- 
guiled 
Into strange silence, and lookt forth 

and smiled 
Hearing sweet sounds.— Then I : "" Me- 

thinks there were 
A cure on these with patience and kind 

care, 
If music can thus move . . . But what 

is he 
Whom we seek here?" "Of his sad 

history 
I know but this," said Maddalo, "he 

came 
To Venice a dejected man, and fame 
Said he was wealthy, or he had been 

so ; 
Some thought the loss of fortune 

wrought him woe ; 
But he was ever talking in such sort 
As you do— far more .sadly ; he seemed 

hurt, 
Even as a man with his peculiar wrong, 
To hear but of the oppression of the 

strong. 
Or tho-;e absurd deceits (I think with 

you 
In some respects, you know) which 

carry through 
The excellent impostors of this earth 
When they outface detection : he had 

worth, 
Poor fellow ! but a humorist in his 

way " — 
"Alas, what drove him mad?" "I 

cannot say ; 
A lady came with him frotn France, 

and when 
She left him ani returned, he wan- 
dered then 
About yon lonely isles of desert sand 
Till he grew wild— he had no cash or 

land 
Remaining,— the police had brought 

him here — 
Some fancy took him and he would not 

bear 
Removal ; so I fitted up for hira 



Those rooms beside the sea, to please* 

his whim. 
And sent him busts and books and urns 

for flowers 
Which had adorned his life in happier 

hours, 
And instruments of music— You may: 

guess 

A stranger could do little more or less 
For one so gentle and unfortunate : 
And those are bis sweet strains which 

charm the weight 
From madmen's chains, and make this 

Hell appear 
A heaven of sacred silence, husht tc 

hear."— 
" Nay, this was kind of you— he had 

no claim, 
As the world says."— " None— but the 

very same 
Which I on all mankind were I as he 
Fallen to such deep reverse ;— hisj 

melody 
Is interrupted— now we hear the din 
Of madmen, shriek on shriek agair 

begin ; 
Let us now visit him ; after this strair 
He ever communes with himself again 
And sees nor hears not any." Having 

said 
These words we called the keeper, anci 

he led 
To an apartment opening on the sea.— 
There the poor wretch was sitting 

mournfully 
Near a piano, his pale fingers twined 
One with the other, and the ooze an( 

wind 
Rusht through an open casement, and 

did sway 
His hair, and starred it with the brack 

ish spray ; 
His head was leaning on a music book 
And he was muttering, and his leai 

limbs shook ; 
His lips were prest against a folded lea |i| 
In hue too beautiful for health, an< 

grief 
Smiled in their motions as they la; 

apart— 
As one who vsrought from his owi 

fervid heart 
The eloquence of passion, soon h 

His sad meek face and eyes lustrou 

and glazed 
And spoke— sometimes as one wh 

wrote and thought 
His words might move some heart tha 

heeded not 
If sent to distant lands : and then a 

one 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



167 



Reproaching: deeds never to be undone 
With wondering self-compassion ; then 

his speech 
Was lost in grief, and then his words 

came each 
Unmodulated, cold, expressionless,— 
But that from one jarred accent you 

might guess 
[t was despair made them so uniform : 
And all the while the loud and gusty 

storm 
Hist thro' the window, and we stood 

behind 
Stealing his accents from the envious 

wind 
[Jnseen. I j-et remember what he said 
Distinctly : such impression his words 

made. 

" Month after month," he cried, " to 

bear this load 
A.nd as a jade urged by the whip and 

goad 
To drag life on, which like a heavy 

chain 
Lengthens behind with many a link of 

pain ! — 
^ud not to speak my grief— O not to 

dare 

ro give a human voice to my despair. 
But live and move, and, wretched 

thing ! smile on 
\s if I never went aside to groan, 
\nd wear this mask of falsehood even 

to those 
tVho are most dear— not for my own 

repose — 

Vlas ! no scorn or pain or hate could be 
>o heavy as that falsehood is to me — 
5ut that I cannot bear more altered 

faces 
Chan needs must be, more changed and 

cold embraces, 
H,.re misery, disappointment, and mis- 
trust 
fo own me for their father . . . Would 

the dust 
ATere covered in upon my body now ! 
?hat the life ceast to toil within my 

brow ! 
^nd then these thoughts would at the 

least be fled ; 
lOt us not fear such pain can vex the 

dead. 

""WTiat Power delights to torture us ? 

I know 
.'hat to mj-self I do not wholly owe 
Vhat now I suffer, tho' in part I may. 
lias ! none strewed sweet flowers upon 

the way 



Where, wandering heedlessly, I met 

pale Pain, 
My shadow, which will leave me not 

again. — 
If I have erred, there was no joy in 

error, 
But pain and insult and unrest and 

terror ; 
I have not as some do, bought peni- 
tence 
With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet 

offence, 
For then, if love and tenderness and 

truth 
Had overlived hope's momentary 

youth, 
My creed should have redeemed me 

from repenting ; 
But loathed scorn and outrage unre- 
lenting. 
Met love excited by far other seeming 
Until the end was gained ... as one 

from dreaming 
Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found 

my state 

Such as it is. 

" O Thou, my spirit's mate 
Who, for thou art compassionate and 

wise, 
Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle 

eyes 
If this sad writing thou shouldst ever 

see— 
My secret groans must be unheard by 

thee. 
Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as 

blood to know 
Thy lost friend's incommunicable woe. 

"Ye few by whom my nature has 
been weighed 

In friendship, let me not that name de- 
grade 

By placing on your hearts the secret 
load 

Which crushes mine to dust. Thei-e is 
one road 

To peace and that is truth, which fol- 
low ye 1 

Love sometimes leads astray to misery. 

Yet think not tho' subdued— and I may 
well 

Say that I am subdued— that the full 
hell 

Within me would infect the untainted 
breast 

Of sacred nature with its own unrest ; 

As some perverted beings think to find 

In scorn or hate a medicine for the 
mind 

Which scorn or hate hath wounded— O 
how vain ! 



168 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



The dagger heals not but may rend 

again . . . 
Believe that I am ever still the same 
In creed as in resolve, and what may 

tame 
My heart, must leave the understand- 
ing free. 
Or all would sink in this keen agony ; 
Nor dream that I will join the vulgar 

cry ; 
Or with" my silence sanction tyranny ; 
Or seek a moment's shelter from my 

pain 
In any madness which the world calls 

gain, 
Ambition or revenge or thoughts as 

stern 
As those which make me what I am ; 

or turn 
To avarice or misanthropy or lust . . . 
Heap on me soon O grave, thy welcome 

dust ! 
Till then the dungeon may demand its 

prey. 
And Poverty and Shame may meet 

and say — 
Halting beside me on the public 

way— 
' That love-devoted youth is ours — let's 

sit 
Beside him~he may live some six 

months yet.' 
Or the red scaffold, as our country 

bends. 
May ask some willing victim, or ye 

friends 
May fall under some sorrow which this 

heart 
Or hand may share or vanquish or 

avert ; 
I am prepared— in truth with no proud 

joy— 

To do or suffer aught, as when a boy 
I did devote to justice and to love 
My nature, worthless now I , . . 

' ' I must remove 
A veil from my pent mind. 'T is torn 

aside ! 
O, pallid as Death's dedicated bride, 
Thou mockery which art sitting by my 

side, 
Am I not wan like thee ? at the grave's 

call 
I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball 
To greet the ghastly paramour, for 

whom 
Thou hast deserted me . . . and made 

the tomb 
Thy bridal bed . . . But I beside your 

feet 
Will lie and watch ye from my wind- 
ing sheet- 



Thus . . . wide awake tho' dead . . . 

yet stay. O stay ! 
Go not so soon— I know not what I 

say- 
Hear but my reasons ... I am mad, I 

fear. 
My fancy is o'erwrought . . . thou art 

not here ... 
Pale art thou, 't is most true . . . but - 

thou art gone, 
Thy work is finisht ... I am left' 

alone !— 



"Nay, was it I who wooed thee tO] 

this breast i 

Which, like a serpent thou envenomestt 
As in repayment of the warmth it lent ? ;, 
Didst thou not seek me for thine own i 

content ? J 

Did not thy love awaken mine ? II 

thought I 

That thou wert she who said ' You kisss 

me not | 

Ever ; I fear you do not love me now ' — 
In truth I loved even to my overthrow\ 
Her, who would fain forget thesee 

words : but they j 

Cling to her mind, and cannot pass^] 

away. 

"You say that I am proud — thatj 

when I speak 
My lip is tortured with the wrongsJ 

which break 
The spirit it expresses . . . Never oneJ 
Humbled himself before, as I have' 

done ! i 

Even the instinctive worm on which] 

we tread t 

Turns, tho' it wound not— then with' 

prostrate head ] 

Sinks in the dust and writhes like me— T 

and dies ? ij 

No : wears a living death of agonies | 
As the slow shadows of the pointed! 

grass i 

Mark the eternal periods, his pangs' 



pass 
Slow, ever-moving,— making moments 

be 
As mine seem — each an immortality ! 



" That you had never seen me— nevei , 

heard '" 

My voice, and more than all had ne'eu 

endured f 

The deep pollution of my loathed emi 

brace— t 

That your eyes ne'er had lied love irf 

my face— I 



JULIAN AND ISIADDALO. 



100 



rhat, like some maniac monk, I had 

torn out 
Dhe nerves of manhood by their bleed- 
ing root 
fVith mine own quivering fingers, so 

that ne'er 
Dur hearts had for a moment mingled 

there 
?o disunite in horror — these were not 
<Vith thee, like some supprest and 

hideous thought 
(Vhich flits athwart our musings, but 

can find 
To rest within a pure and gentle 

mind . . . 
■"hou sealedst them with many a bare 

broad word 
Ind searedst my memory o'er them, — 

for I heard 
v.nd can forget not . . . they were 

ministered 
)ne after one, those curses. Mix them 

up 
like self-destroying poisons in one 

cup, 
nd they will make one blessing which 

thou ne'er 
>idst imprecate for, on me,— death. 



" It were 

. cruel punishment for one most cruel 
" such can love, to make that love the 

fuel 
f the mind's hell ; hate, scorn, re- 

moi'se, despair : 
ut mc — whose heart a stranger's tear 

might wear 
s water-drops the sandy fountain- 
stone, 
.''ho loved and pitied all things, and 

could moan 
or woes which others hear not, and 

could see 

he absent with the glance of fantasy, 
nd with the poor and trampled sit and 

weep, 
allowing the captive to his dungeon 

deep ; 
c — who am as a nerve o'er which do 

creep 
ae else unfelt oppressions of this 

earth, 
nd was to thee the fiame upon thy 

hearth, 
'hen all beside was cold— that thou 

on me 
louldst rain these plagues of blister- 
ing agony— 
ich curses are from lips once eloquent 
'ith love's too partial praise — let none 

relent 



Who intend deeds too dreadful for a 

name 
Henceforth, if an example for the 

same 
They seek . . . for thou on me lookedst 

so, and so— 
And didst speak thus . . . and thus . . . 

I live to show 
How much men bear and die not ! 



" Thou wilt tell. 
With the grimace of hate how horrible 
It was to meet my love when thine 

grew less ; 
Thou wilt admire how I could e'er 

address 
Such featiu-es to love's work . . . this 

taunt, tho' true, 
(For indeed nature nor in form nor hue 
Bestowed on me her choicest workman- 
ship) 
Shall not be thy defence . . . for since 

thy lip 
Met mine first, years long past, since 

thine eye kindled 
With soft fire under mine, I have not 

dwindled 
Nor changed in mind or body, or in 

aught 
But as love changes what it loveth not 
After long years and many trials. 

" How vain 
Are words ! I thought never to speak 

again. 
Not even in secret, — not to my own 

heart- 
But from my lips the unwilling accents 

start. 
And from my pen the words flow as I 

write. 
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears 

. . . my sight 
Is dim to see that charactered in vain 
On this unfeeling leaf which burns the 

brain 
And eats into it . . . blotting all things 

fair 
And wise and good which time had 

written there. 

" Those who inflict must suffer, for 

they see 
The work of their own hearts and this 

must be 
Our chastisement or recompense — O 

child ! 
I would that thine were like to be more 

mild 
For both our wretched sakes . . . for 

thine the most 



170 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



Who f eelest already all that thou hast 

lost . , .. ., . 

Without the power to wish it thine 

again ; ^ , x • 

And as slow years pass, a funereal train 
Each with the ghost of some lost hope 

or friend 
Following it like its shadow, wilt thou 

beiid 
No thought on my dead memory i 

" Alas, love ! 
Pear me not . . . against thee I would 

not move 
A finger in despite. Do I not live 
That thou mayst have less bitter cause 

to grieve ? 
1 give thee tears for scorn and love for 

hate ; , , . 

And that thy lot may be less desolate 
Than his on whom thou tramplest, I 

refrain 
From that sweet sleep which medicines 

all pain. 
Then, when thou speakest of me, never 

'He could forgive not.' Here I cast 
away ,, 

All human passions, all revenge, all 
pride ; j , . v,-^ 

I think, speak, act no ill ; I do but hide 

Under these words, like embers, every 
spark , 

Of that which has consumed me— 
Quick and dark 

The grave is yawning ... as its root 
shall cover . 

My limbs with dust and worms under 
and over . 

So let Oblivion hide this grief . . . the 
air 

Closes upon my accents, as despair 

Upon my heart— let death upon de- 
spair ! " 

He ceast, and overcome leant back 

awhile. 
Then rising, with a melancholy smile 
Went to a sofa, and lay down, and 

slept 
A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he 

wept 
And muttered some familiar name, 

and we 
Wept without shame in his society. 
I think I never was imprest so much ; 
The man who were not, must have 

lackt a touch 
Of human nature . . . then we lingered 

not. . . . 

Altho' our argument was quite forgot, 



But calling the attendants, went to 

dine 
At Maddalo's ; yet neither cheer nor 

Could give us spirits, for we talkt ol 
him , 

And nothing else, till daylight made 
stars dim ; ^ ,* . 

And we agreed his was some dreaaru. 

ill 
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeaki 

able, 
By a dear friend ; some deadly change 

in love 
Of one vowed deeply which he dreamec 

"ot of ; , , A a 

For whose sake he, it seemed, had hx- 

a blot . ^ ^ 

Of falsehood on his mind which hour 

isht not ,. , ^^, 

But in the light of all-beholdmg trutb 
And having stampt this canker on hi 

youth 
She had abandoned him— and hoit 

much more 
Might be his woe, we guessed not— hj 

had store 
Of friends and fortune once, as TO] 

could guess 
From his nice habits and his gentli| 

ness ; . i 

These were now lost ... it were | 

grief indeed i 

If he hadchanged one unsustaining recj 
For all that such a man might els* 

adorn. ) 

The colors of his mind seemed yet u: 

worn ; . - 

For the wild language of his grief w^[ 

higb, „ , , i 

Such as in measure were called poetr 
And I remember one remark whi<| 

tben 
Maddalo made. He said: "Mc 

wretched men 
Are cradled into poetry by wrong, 
They learn in suffering what they tea | 
in song." 

If I had been an unconnected man 
I, from this moment, should ha 
formed some plan [i 

Never to leave sweet Venice,— for 
It was delight to ride by the lone se 
And then, the town is silent— one m 

write 
Or read in gondolas by day or night. 
Having the little brazen lamp alig. 
Unseen, uninterrupted; books J 

Pictures, and casts from all thi 
statues fair 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



171 



V'hich were twiu-boni with poetry, and 

all 
Ve seek in towns, with little to recall 
legrets for the green country. I 

might sit 
n Maddalo's great palace, and his wit 
Lnd subtle talk would cheer the winter 

night 
Lnd make me know myself, and the 

firelight 
Vould flash upon our faces, till the 

day 
light dawn and make me wonder at 

my stay : 
ut I had friends in London too ; the 

chief 
.ttraction here, was that I sought 

relief 
rom the deep tenderness that maniac 

wrought 
rithin me— 't was perhaps an idle 

thought— 
ut I imagined that if day by day 
'watcht him, and but seldom went 

away, 
nd studied all the beatings of his 

heart 
''ith zeal, as men study some stubborn 

art 
or their own good, and could by 

patience find 
n entrance to the caverns of his 

mind, 
might reclaim him from this dark 

estate : 
I friendships I had been most for- 
tunate — 
et never saw I one whom I would 

call 
pre willingly my friend ; and this 

was all 
;complisht not ; such dreams of base- 
less good 
't come and go in crowds or solitude 
ad leave no trace— but what I now 

designed 
ade for long years impression on my 

mind, 
le following morning urged by my 

affairs 
eft bright Venice. 

After many vears 
id many changes I returned • the 

name 
' Venice, and its aspect, was the 

same ; 



But Maddalo was travelling far away 
Among the mountains of Armenia. 
His dog was dead. His child had now 

become 
A woman ; such as it has been my 

doom 
To meet with few, a wonder of this 

earth 
Where there is little of transcendent 

worth. 
Like one of Shakespeare's women. 

Kindly she, 
And with a manner beyond courtesy. 
Received her father's friend ; arid 

when I askt 
Of the lorn maniac, she her memory 

taskt 
And told, as she had heard, the mourn- 
ful tale. 
"That the poor sufferer's health began 

to fail 
Two years from my departure, but 

that then 

The lady who had left him, came 

again. [now 

Her mien had been Imperious, but she 

Lookt meek— perhaps remorse had 

brought her low. 
Her coming made him better, and they 

stayed 
Together at my father's— for I played 
As I remember with the lady's shawl— 
I might be six years old— but after 

all 
She left him." . . . "Why, her heart 

must have been tough : 
How did it end ? " " And was not this 

enough ? 
They met— they parted "—" Child, is 

there no more ? " 
"Something within that interval 

which bore 
The stamp of tvhy they parted, hmo 

they met : 
Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet 
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's 

remembered tears. 
Ask me no more, but let the silent 

years 
Be closed and cered over their memory 
As yon mute marble where their ■ 

corp.ses lie." 
I urged and questioned still, she told 

me how 
All happened— but the cold world 
shall not know. 



:iy2 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 

A LYRICAL DRAMA. 

IN FOUR ACTS. 

AUDISNE H^KC AMPHIARAE, SUB TERRAM 

ABDITE ? 

PREFACE. 
The Greek tragic writers, in select- 
ing as their subject any portion of their 
national history or mythology, em- 
ployed in their treatment of it a certani 
;u-bitrary discretion. They by no 
means conceived themselves bound to 
adhere to the common interpretation 
or to imitate in story as in title then- 
rivals and predecessors. Such a sys- 
tem would have amounted to a resig- 
nation of those claims to preference 
over their competitors which incited 
the composition. The Agamemnonian 
story was exhibited on the Athenian 
theatre with as many variations as 
dramas. . 

1 have presumed to employ a similar 
license. The " Prometheus Unbound " 
of JEschylus supposed the reconcilia- 
tion of Jupiter with his victim as the 
price of the disclosure of the danger 
threatened to his empire by the con- 
summation of his marriage with 
Thetis. Thetis, according to this view 
of the subject, was given in marriage 
to Peleus, and Prometheus, by the per- 
mission of Jupiter, delivered from his 
captivity by Hercules. Had I framed 
my story on this model, I should have 
done no more than have attempted to 
restore the lost drama of ^schylus ; an 
ambition which, if my preference to 
this mode of treating the subject had 
incited me to cherish, the recollection 
of the high comparison such an at- 
tempt would challenge might well 
abate. But, in truth, I was averse 
from a catastrophe so feeble as that of 
reconciling the Champion with the 
Oppressor of mankind. The moral in- 
terest of the fable, which is so power- 
fully sustained by the sufferings and 
endurance of Prometheus, would be 
annihilated if we could conceive of 
him as unsaying his high language and 
quailing before his successful and per- 
fidious adversary. The only imaginary 
being resembling in any degree Pro- 
metheus, is Satan ; and Prometheus is, 
in my judgment, a more poetical char- 
acter than Satan, because, in addition 
to courage, and majesty, and firm and 
patient opposition to omnipotent force, 
he is susceptible of being described as 



exempt from the taints of ambition, 
envy, revenge, and a desire for per- 
sonal aggrandisement, which, in the 
Hero of Paradise Lost, interfere with 
the interest. The character of Satan 
engenders in the mind a pernicious 
casuistry which leads us to weigh his 
faults with his wrongs, and to excuse . 
the former because the latter exceed 
all measure. In the minds of those 
who consider that magnificent fiction 
with a religious feeling it engenders 
something v/orse. But Prometheus is, i 
as it were, the type of the highest per- 
fection of moral and intellectual na- 
ture, impelled by the purest and the 
truest motives to the best and noblest \ 
ends. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Prometheus. Mercury. 

Demogorgon. Hercules. 

Jupiter. Asia. ) 

The Earth. Panthea V Oceanides.: 

Ocean. Ione ) 

Apollo. 

The Phantasm of Jupiter. 

The Spirit of the Earth. 

The Spirit of the Moon. 

Spirits of the Hours. 

Spirits. Echoes. Fauns. Furies. 

ACT I. 

Scene.— A Ravine of Icy Rocks d 
THE Indian Caucasus. 

Prometheus is discovered hound, tr 
the Precipice. Panthea and loNi 
are seated at his feet. Time, night 
During the Scene morning slowli 
breaks. 

Prometheus. Monarch of Gods anc 
Daemons, and all Spirits 

But One, who throng those bright anc 
rolling worlds 

Which Thou and I alone of living 

Behold with sleepless eyes ! regard thi; 

Earth 
Made multitudinous with thy slaves 

whom thou 
Requitest for knee- worship, prayer, an 

praise, 
And toil, and hecatombs of brokej 

hearts. 
With fear and self-contempt and bar 

ren hope. 
Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless i 

hate, 
Hast thou made reign and triumph, t 

thy sc!orn, ,, 

O'er mine own misery and thy vain re J 

venge. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



173 



Three thousand years of sleep-nnshol- 

tered hours, 
And moments aj'e divided by keen 

pangs 
Till they seemed years, torture and 

solitude. 
Scorn and despair, — these are mine 

empire : — 
More glorious far than that which thou 

surveyest 
From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty 

God ! 
Almighty, had I deigned to share the 

shame 
Jf thine ill tyranny, and hung not here 
Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling 

mountain. 
Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured ; 

without herb. 
Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of 

life. 
Ah me ! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever ! 

No cliange, no pause, no hope ! Yet I 

endure. 
I ask the Earth, have not the moun- 
tains felt? 
I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding 

Sun, 
Has it not seen ? The Sea, in storm or 

calm, 
Heaven's ever-changing Shadow, 

spread below, 
Have its deaf waves not heard my 
' agony ? 

> Ah me ! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever ! 
I The crawling glaciers pierce me with 

the spears 
I Of their moon-freezing crystals ; the 
bright chains 
Eat with their burning cold into my 

bones. 
Heaven's winged hound, polluting from 

thy lips 
His beak in poison not his own, tears up 
My heart ; and shapeless sights come 

wandering by, 
The ghastly people of the realm of 
\ dream, 

' Mocking me : and the Earthquake- 
fiends are charged 
To wrench the rivets from my quiver- 
ing wounds 
When the rocks split and close again 

behind : 
While from their loudabj'sses howling 
' throng 

The genii of the storm, urging the rage 
) Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen 
.) hail. 

And yet to me welcome is day and 
night, 



Whether one breaks the hoar fi'ost of 

the morn. 
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other 

climbs 
The leaden-colored east ; for then they 

lead 
The wingless, crawling hours, one 

among whom 
— As some dark Priest hales the reluc- 
tant victim- 
Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the 

blood 
From these pale feet, which then might 

trample thee 
If they disdained not such a prostrate 

slave. 
Disdain ! Ah no ! I pity thee. What 

ruin 
Will hunt thee undefended thro' the 

wide Heaven ! 
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth 

with terror, 
Gape like a hell within ! I speak in 

grief. 
Not exultation, for I hate no more. 
As then ere misery made me wise. 

The curse 
Once breathed on thee I would recal. 

Ye Mountains, 
Whose many-voiced Echoes, thro' the 

mist 
Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that 

spell ! 
Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrin- 
kling frost, 
Which vibrated to hear me, and then 

crept 
Shuddering thro' India ! Thou seren- 

est Air, 
Thro' which the Sun walks burning 

without beams ! 
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on 

poised wings 
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon husht 

abyss, 
As thunder, louder than your own, 

made rock 
The orbed world ! If then my words 

had power, 
Tho' I am changed so that aught evil 

wish 
Is dead within ; altho' no memory be 
Of what is hate, let them not lose it 

now ! 
What was tliat curse ? for ye all heard 

me speak 
First ]^iiicc (fnni} tJtc Mo}(nt(iins.) 
Thrice three "hundred thousand years 
O'er the Eartluiuake's couch we 

stood : 
Oft, as men convulsed with fears. 
We trembled in our multitude. 



174 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Second Voice {from the Sprinrjs). 
Thunderbolts had parcht our water, 
We had been stained with bitter 
blood, 
And had run mute, mid shrieks of 
slaughter, 
Thro' a city and a solitude. 
Third Voice (from the Air). 
I had clothed, since Earth uprose. 
Its wastes in colors not their 
own. 
And oft liad my serene repose 
Been cloven by many a rending 
groan. 
Fourth Voice (from the }Vliirlwinds). 
We had soared beneath these moun- 
tains 
Unresting ages ; nor had thunder, 
Nor yon volcano's flaming fount- 
ains. 
Nor any power above or under 
Ever made us mute with wonder. 
First \"oice. 
But never bowed our snowy crest 
As at the voice of thine unrest. 

Second, Voice. 
Never such a sound before 
To the Indian waves we bore. 
A pilot asleep on the howling sea 
Leapt up from the deck in agony. 
And heard, and cried, " Ah, woe is 

me 1" 
And died as mad as the wild waves be. 
Tliird Voice. 
By such dread words from Earth to 

Heaven 
My still realm was never riven : 
When its wound was closed, there 

stood 
Darkness o'er the day like blood. 

Fourth Voice. 
And we shrank back : for dreams of 

ruin 
To frozen caves our flight pursu- 
ing 
Made us keep silence — thus — and 

thus — 
Tho' silence is a hell to us. 
The Earth. The tongueless Caverns 
of the craggy hills ' 
Cried, "Misery!" then; the hollow 

Heaven replied, 
" Misery ■ '' And the Ocean's purple 

waves, 
Climbing the land, howled to the lash- 
ing winds, 
And the pale nations heard it, 
' ' Misery ! " 
Promethevs. I heard a sound of 
voices : not the voice 
Which I gave forth. Mother, thy sons 
and thou 



Scorn him, without whose all-enduring 

will 
Beneath the fierce omnipotence of 

Jove, 
Both they and thou had vanished, like 

thin mist 
Unrolled on the morning wind. Know 

ye not me, 
The Titan ? He who made his 

agony 
The barrier to your else all-conquering 

foe? 
Oh, rock-embosomed lawns, and snow- 
fed streams. 
Now seen athwart frore vapors, deep 

belOAv, 
Thro' whose o'ershadowing woods I 

wandered once 
With Asia, drinking life from her loved 

eyes ; 
Why scorns the spirit which informs 

ye, now 
To commune with me ? me alone, who 

checkt. 
As one who checks a fiend-drawn 

charioteer. 
The falsehood and the force of him 

who reigns 
Supreme, and with the groans of 

pining slaves 
Fills your dim glens and liquid wilder- 
nesses : 
Why answer ye not, still ? Brethren ! 
The Earth. They dare not. 

Promethcits. Who dares? for I would 

hear that curse again. 
Ha, what an awful whisper rises up ! 
'T isjscarce like sound : it tingles thro' 

the frame 
As lightning tingles, hovering ere it 

strike. 
Speak, Spirit ! from thine inorganic 

voice 
I only know that thou art moving near 
And love. How curst I him ? 

The Earth. How canst thou hear 
Who knowest not the language of the 

dead ? 
ProinetheHS. Thou art a living 

spirit : speak as they. 
The Earth. I dare not speak like 

life, lest Heaven's fell King 
Should hear, and link me to some wheel 

of pain 
More torturing than the one whereon 

I roll. 
Subtle thou art and good, and tho' the 

Gods 
Hear not this voice, yet thou art more 

than God 
Being wise and kind : earnestly heark- 
en now. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



175 



Promctlu IIS. ()l>8i'iiroly thro' my 
brain, like shiulows dim, 

Sweep awful thoug:hts, rapid and thick. 
I feel 

Faint, like one mingled in entwining 
love ; 

Yet 't is not pleasure. 
Tfie Earth. No, thou canst not hear : 

Thou art immortal, and this tongue is 
known 

Only to those who die. 
Proincthvus. And what art thou, 

O melancholy Voice ? 
The Earth. I am the Earth, 

Thy mother ; she within whose stony 
veins, 

To the last fibre of the loftiest tree 

Whose thin leaves trembled in the 
frozen air, 

Joy ran, as blood within a living frame, 

When thou didst from her bosom, like 
a cloud 

Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy ! 

And at thy voice her pining sons up- 
lifted 

Their prostrate brows from the pollut- 
ing dust. 

And our almighty Tyrant with fierce 
dread 

Grew pale, until his thunder chained 
thee here. 

Then, see those million worlds which 
burn and roll 

Around us : their inhabitants beheld 

My sphered light wane in wide Heav- 
en ; the sea 

Was lifted by strange tempest, and 
new fire 

From earthquake-rifted mountains of 
bright snow 

Shook its portentous hair beneath 
Heaven's frown ; 

Lightning and Inundation vext the 
plains ; 

Blue thistles bloomed in cities ; food- 
less toads 

Within voluptuous chambers panting 
crawled : 

When Plague had fallen on man, and 
beast, and worm. 

And Famine ; and black blight on herb 
and tree ; 

And in the corn, and vines, and mead- 
ow-gras.s, 

Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds 

Draining their growth, for my wan 
breast was dry 

With grief ; and the thin air, my 
breath, was stained 

With the contagion of a mother's hate 

Breathed on her child's destroyer ; 
aye, I heard i 



Thycur.se, the wliicli. if thou rcmem- 
borest not, 

Yet my innumerable seas and streams. 

Mountains, and caves, and winds, and 
yon wide air, 

And the inarticulate people of the 
dead, 

Preserve, a treasured spell. We medi- 
tate 

In secret joy and hope those dreadful 
words 

But dare not speak them. 
Prometheus. Venerable mother ! 

All else who live and suffer take from 
thee 

Some comfort ; flowers, and fruits, 
and happy sounds, 

And love, though fleeting ; these may 
not be mine. 

But mine own words, I pray, deny me 
not. 
The Earth. They shall be told. Ere 
Babylon was dust. 

The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child, 

Met his own image walking in the gar- 
den. 

That apparition, sole of men, he 
saw. 

For know there are two worlds of life 
and death ; 

One that which thou beholdest ; but 
the other 

Is underneath the grave, where do in- 
habit 

The shadows of all forms that think 
and live 

Till death unite them and they part no 
more ; 

Dreams and the light imaginings of 
men. 

And all that faith creates or love de- 
sires, 

Terrible, strange, sublime and beau- 
teous .shapes. 

There thou art, and dost hang, a writh- 
ing shade. 

Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains ; all 
the gods 

Are there, and all the powers of name- 
less worlds. 

Vast, sceptred phantoms ; heroes, 
men, and beasts ; 

And Demogorgon, a ^tremendous 
gloom ; 

And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his 
throne 

Of burning gold. Son, one of these 
shall utter 

The curse which all remember. Call 
at will 

Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupi- 
ter, 



17G 



PROMETHEUS UNUOUND. 



Hades or Typhon, or what mightier 

Gods 
From all-prolilic Evil, since thy ruin 
Have sprung, and trampled on my pros- 
trate sons. 
Ask, and they must reply : so the 

revenge 
Of the Supreme may sweep thro' 

vacant shades, 
As rainy wind thro' the abandoned 

gate 
Of a fallen palace. 

Pi'Dincthcns. Mother, let not aught 
Of that which may be evil, pass again 
My lips, or those of aught resembling 

nie. 
Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear ! 
lone. 
My wings are folded o'er mine ears : 
My wings are crossed o'er mine 
eyes : 
Yet thro' their silver shade ax^pears, 
And thro' their lulling plumes 
arise, 
A Shape, a throng of sounds ; 

May it be no ill to thee 
O thou of manj- wounds ! 
Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake, 
Ever thus we watch and wake. 
Pantlica. 
The sound is of whirlwind under- 
ground. 
Earthquake, and fire, and moun- 
tains cloven ; 
The shape is awful like the sound, 
Clothed in dark purple, star-in- 
woven. 
A sceptre of pale gold 
To stay steps proud, ©'er the slow 
cloud 
His veined hand doth hold. 
Cruel he looks, but calm and strong. 
Like one who does, not suffers wrong. 
Phantasm of Jupiter. Why have 
the secret powers of this strange 
world 
Driven me, a frail and empty phan- 
tom, hither 
On direst storms ? What unaccus- 
tomed sounds 
Are hovering on my lips, unlike the 

voice 
Wtth which our pallid race hold 

ghastly talk 
In darkness ? And, proud sufferer, 
who art thou ? 
Promctlwus. Tremendous Image, 
as thou art must be 
He whom thou shadowest forth. I am 

his foe. 
The Titan. Speak the words which I 
would hear, 



Although no thought inform thine 
empty voice. 
The EartJi. Listen! And tho' your 
echoes must be mute. 
Gray mountains, and old woods, and 

haunted springs. 
Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding 

streams, 
Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot 
speak. 
Phantasm. A spirit seizes me and 
speaks within : 
It tears me as fire tears a thunder- 
cloud. 
PantJica. See, how he lifts his 
mighty looks, the Heaven 
Darkens above. 
lone. He speaks ! O shelter me ! 
Prometheus. I see the curse on 
gestures proud and cold. 
And looks of firm defiance, and calm 

hate. 
And such despair as mocks itself with 

smiles. 
Written as on a scroll : yet speak : 
Oh, speak ! 

Phantasm. 
Fiend, I defy thee ! with a calm, fixed 
mind, 
All that thou canst inflict I bid 
thee do ; 
Foul Tyrant both of G-ods and Hu- 
man-kind, 
One only being shalt thou not sub- 
due. I 
Rain then thy plagues upon me here, 
Ghastly disease, and frenzying fear ; ' 
And let alternate frost and fire ' 
Eat into me, and be thine ire . 
Lightning, and cutting hail, and le- ^ 

gioned forms 
Of furies, driving by upon the wound- 
ing storms. 

Ay, do thy worst \ Thou art omnip- 
otent. 
O'er all things but myself I gave 
thee power. 
And my own will. Be thy swift 
mischiefs sent if 

To blest mankind, from yon 
ethereal tower. 
Let thy malignant spirit move 
In darkness over those I love : 
On me and mine I imprecate 
The utmost torture of thy hate ; 
And thus devote to sleepless agony, 
Thisundeclining head while thou must / 
reign on high. 

But thou, who art the God and Lord 
O, thou, 



4 



PKOMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



177 



Who finest with thy soul this world 
of woe, 
To whom all things of Earth and 
Heaven do bow 
In fear and worship : all-prevail- 
ing foe ! 
I curse thee ! let a suITerer's curse 
Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse ; 
Till thine Infinity shall be 
A robe of envenomed agony ; 
And thine Omnipotence a crown of 

pain. 
To cling like burning gold round thy 
dissolving brain. 

Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this 
Curse, 
111 deeds, then be thou damned, 
beholding good ; 
Both infinite as is the universe. 
And thou, and thy self-torturing 
solitude. 
An awful image of calm power 
Tho' now thou sittest, let the hour 
Come, when thou must appear to be 
That which thou art internally. 
And after many a false and fruitless 

crime 
Scorn track thy lagging fall thro' 
boundless space and time. 

Prometheus. Were these my words, 
O, Parent ? 
; The Eu rUi . They were thine. 

\ Proxietlicus. It doth repent me : 

I words are quick and vain ; 

' Grief for awhile is blind, and so was 
\ mine. 

' I wish no living thing to suffer pain. 
The Earth. 
Misery, Oh misery to me, 
That Jove at length should vanquish 

thee. 
Wail, howl aloud. Land and Sea, 
The Earth's rent heart shall answer 
, ye. 

Howl, Spirits of the living and the 
\ dead, 

^our refuge, your defence lies fallen 
and vanquished. 

Fi est Echo. 
' Lies fallen and vanquishM ! 
Second Echo. 
Fallen and vanquished ! 
lone. 
1. Fear not : 't is but some passing 
> spasm, 

ft The Titan is unvanquisht still. 
) But see, where thro' the azure chasm 
Of yon forkt and snowy hill 
Trampling the slant winds on high 
13 



With golden-sandalled feef, that 
glow 
Under plumes of purple dye, 
Like rose-en,sanguiiied ivory, 

A Shape comes now, 
Stretching on high from his right 

hand 
A serpent-cinctured wand. 
Pun thai. 'T is Jove's world-wander- 
ing herald. Mercury, 
ioiif. 
And who are those with hydra 
tresses 
And iron wings that climb the 
wind, 
Whom the frowning God represses 
Like vapors streaming up behind. 
Clanging loud, an endless crowd- 
Pa nthca. 
These are Jove's tempest-walking 

hounds. 
Whom he gluts with groans and 

blood. 
When charioted on sulphurous cloud 
He bursts Heaven's bounds. 
lone. 
Are they now led, from the thin dead 
On new pangs to be fed ? 
Panthcd. 
The Titan looks as ever, firm, not 

proud. 
First Fury. Ha ! I scent life ! 
Second Fury. Let me but look into 

his eyes 1 
Third Fury. The hope of torturing 
him smells like a heap 
Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. 
First Fury. Barest thou delay, O 
Herald '. take cheer. Hounds 
Of Hell : what if the Son of Maia soon 
Should make us food and sport— who 

can please long 
The Omnipotent ? 
Mercury. Back to your towers of 
iron, 
And gnash, beside the streams of fire 

and wail. 
Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise ! 
and Gorgon. 
Chimaera, and thou Spuinx, subtlest 
of fiends 
Who ministered to Thebes Heaven's 

poisoned wine. 
Unnatural love, and more unnatural 

hate : 
These shall perform your task. 

First Fury. Oh, mercy ! mercy ! 
We die with our desire : drive us not 
back ! 
Mercury. Crouch then in silence. 
Awful sufferer 
To the unwilling, most unwillingly 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



I come, by the great Father's will 

driven down, 
To execute a doom of new revenge. 
Alas ! I pity thee, and hate myself 
That I can do no more : aye from thy 

sight 
Returning, for a season. Heaven seems 

Hell, 
So thy worn form pursues me night and 

day, 
Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm 

and good, 
But vainly wouldst stand forth alone 

in strife 
Against the Omnipotent ; as yon clear 

lamps 
That measure and divide the weary 

years 
From which there is no refuge, long 

have taught 
And long must teach. Even now thy 

Torturer arms 
With the strange might of unimagincd 

pains 
The powers who scheme slow agonies 

in Hell, 
And my commission is to lead them 

here, 
Or what more subtle, foul, or savage 

fiends 
People the abyss, and leave them to 

their task. 
Be it not so ! there is a secret known 
To thee, and to none else of living 

things, 
Which may transfer the sceptre of 

wide "Heaven, 
The fear of which perplexes the Su- 
preme : 
Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his 

throne 
In intercession ; bend thy soul in 

prayer. 
And like a suppliant in some gorgeous 

fane, 
Let the will kneel within thy haughty 

heart : 
For benefits and meek submission tame 
The fiercest and the mightiest. 

Prometheus. Evil minds 

Change good to their own nature. I 

gave all 
He has ; and in return he chains me 

here 
Years, ages, night and day : whether 

the Sun 
Split my parched skin, or in the moony 

night 
The crystal-winged snow cling round 

n:y hair : 
Whilst my beloved race is trampled 

down 



By his thought-executing ministers. 
Such is the tyrant's recompense : 't is 

just : 
He who is evil can receive no good ; 
And for a world bestowed, or a friend 

lost. 
He can feel hate, fear, shame ; not 

gratitude : 
He but requites me for his own mis- 
deed. 
Kindness to such is keen reproach, 

which breaks 
With bitter stings the light sleep of 

Revenge. 
Submission, thou dost knov/ I cannot 

try : 
For what submission but that fatal 

word. 
The death-.seal of mankind's captivity, 
Like the Sicilian's hair-suspended 

sword. 
Which trembles o'er his crown, would 

he accept. 
Or could I yield ? Which yet I will not 

yield. 
Let others flatter Crime, where it sits 

throned 
In brief Omnipotence : secure are they: 
For Justice, when triumphant, will 

weed down 
Pity, not punishment, on her own 

wrongs. 
Too much avenged by those who e:'i 

I wait, 
Enduring thus, the retributive hour | 
Which since we spake is even nearer j 

now. ) 

But hark, the hell-hounds clamor : fear 

delay : ^ 

Behold ! Heaven lowers under thy ^ 

Father's frown. 
Mercury. Oh, that we might be 

.spared : I to inflict 
And thou to suffer ! Once more an- 
swer me : 
Thou knowest not the period of Jove's 

power ? , 

Prometheus. I know but this, that 

it must come. A 

Mercury. Alas I C 

Thou canst not count thy years to come 

of pain ? 
Prometheus. They last while Jove | 

must reign : nor more, nor less > 
Do I desire or fear. , 

Mercury. Yet pause, and plunge 
Into Eternity, where recorded time, 
Even all that we imagine, age on<!j 

age, / 1 

Seems but a point, and the reluctanti 

mind ki 

Flags wearily in its unending flight, 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



179 



Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lost, shelter- 
less ; 
Perchance it has not numbered the 

slow years 
Which thou must spcnid in torture, un- 
reprieved ? 
Prometheus. Perchance no thought 

can coiint them, yet they pass. 
Mercury. If thou niif>-ht'st dwell 
among tho Gods the while 
Lapt in voluptuous joy ? 

Fromcthcvs. I would not quit 
This bleak ravine, these unrepentant 
pains. 
Mercury. Alas ! I wonder at, yet 

pity thee. 
Prometheus. Pity the self-despising 
slaves of Heaven, 
Not me, within whose mind sits peace 

serene, 
As light in the sun, throned •. how vain 

is talk ! 
Call up the fiends. 

lone. O, sister, look ! White tire 
Has cloven to the roots j'on liuge snow- 
loaded cedar ; 
How fearfully God's thunder howls be- 
hind ! 
• Mcrcu ry. I must obey his words and 

thine : alas ! 
Most heavily remorse hangs at my 
heart ! 
Pantliea. See where the child of 
Heaven, with winged feet 
Runs down the slanted sunlight of the 
dav/n. 
lone. Dear sister, close thy plumes 
over thine eyes 
Lest thou behold and die ; they come : 

they come 
Blackening the birth of day with count- 
less wings. 
And hollow underneath, like death. 
First Fur]/. Prometheus ! 

Sci-niuJ Fury. Immortal Titan ! 
Third Fury. Champion of 

Heaven's slaves ! 
Proinetheus. He whom some dread- 
ful voice invokes is here, 
Prometheus, the chained Titan. 

Horrible forms, 
What and who ar 3 ye ? Never yet 

there came 
Phantasms so foul thro' monster-teem- 
ing Hell 
From the all-miscreative brain of Jove ; 
Whilst I behold such execrable shapes, 
Methinks I gi'ow like what I contem- 
plate, 
And laugh and stare in loathsome sym- 
pathy. 



Fir.'il Fury. We are the ministers 

of pain, and fear, 
And disappointment, and mistrust, 

and hate. 
And clinging crime ; and as lean dogs 

pui'sue 
Thro' wood and lake .some struck and 

sobbing fawn, 
We track all things that weep, and 

bleed, and live, 
When the great King betrays them to 

our will. 
Prometheus. Oh ! many fearful na- 
tures in one name, 
I know ye ; and these lakes and echoes 

know 
The darkness and the clangor of your 

wings. 
But why more hideous than your 

loathed selves 
Gather ye up in legions from the deep ? 
Second Fury. We knew not that : 

Sisters, rejoice, rejoice ! 
Prometheus. Can aught exult in its 

deformity ? 
Second Fury. The beauty of delight 

makes lovers glad, 
Gazing on one another : so are we. 
As from the rose which the pale 

priestess kneels 
To gather for her festal crown of flowers 
The aerial crimson falls, flushing her 

cheek, 
So from our victim's destined agony 
The shade which is our form invests us 

round. 
Else we are shapeless as our mother 

Night. 
Prometheus. I laugh your power, 

and his who sent you here, 
To lowest scorn. Pour foi'th the cup of 

pain. 
First Fury. Thou thinkest we will 

rend thee bone from bone. 
And nerve from nerve, working like fire 

within ? 
Prometheus. Pain is my element, as 

hate is thine ; 
Ye rend me now : I care not. 

Second Fury. Dost imagine 
We will but laugh into thy lidless 

eyes Y 
Prometheus. I weigh not what ye do, 

but what ye suffer, 
Being evil. Cruel was the power 

which called 
You, or^aught else so wretched, into 

light. 
Tliird Fury. Thou think'st we will 

live thro' thee, one by one. 
Likes, animal life, and tho' we can ob- 

cure not 



180 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



The soul which burns within, that we 

will dwell 
Beside it, like a vain loud multitude 
Vexing the self -content of wisest men : 
That we will be dread thought beneath 

thy brain, 
And foul desire round thine astonisht 

heart. 
And blood within thy labyrinthine 

veins 
Crawling like agony. 

Prometheus. Why, ye are thus now ; 
Yet am I king over myself, and rule 
The torturing and conflicting throngs 

within, 
As Jove rules you when Hell grows 
mutinous. 

Chorus of Furies. 
From the ends of the earth, from the 
ends of the earth, 
Where the night has its grave and the 
morning its birth, 
Come, come, come ! 
Oh, ye who shake hills with the scream 
of your mirth, [ye 

When cities sink howling in ruin ; and 
Who with wingless footsteps ti*ample 

the sea. 
And close upon Shipwreck and Fam- 
ine's track. 
Sit chattering with joy on the foodless 
wreck ; 
Come, come, come ! 
Leave the bed, low, cold, and red, 
Strewed beneath a nation dead ; 
Leave the hatred, as in ashes 

Fire is left for future burning : 
It will burst in bloodier flashes 

When ye stir it, soon returning : 
Leave the self-contempt implanted 
In young spirits, sense-enchanted. 

Misery's yet unkindled fuel : 
Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted 

To the maniac dreamer ; cruel 
More than ye can be with hate 
Is he with fear. 

Come, come, come ! [gate 

We are steaming up from Hell's wide 
And we burden the blast of the at- 
mosphere, 
But vainly we toil till ye come here. 
ln)ie. Sister, I hear the thunder 

of new wings. 
Piinthca. These solid mountains 
quiver with the sound 
Even as the tremulous air ; their 

shadows make 
The space within my plumes more 
black than night. 
First Fury. 
Your call was as a winged car 
Driven on whirlwinds fast and far ; 



It rapt us from red gulfs of war. 

Second Fury. 
From wide cities, famine-wasted ; 

Third Fury. 
Groans half heard, and blood nntasted; 

Fourth Fury. 
Kingly conclaves stern and cold, 
Where blood with gold is bought and 
sold ; 

Fifth Fury. 
From the furnace, white and hot, 
In which — 

A Fury. 
Speak not : whisper not : 
I know all that ye would tell. 
But to speak might break the spell 
Which must bend the Invincible, 

The stern of thought ; 
He yet defies the deepest power of 
Hell. 

Fury. 
Tear the veil ! 

Another Fury. 

It is torn. 

Chorus. 

The pale stars of the morn 

Shine on a misery, dire to be borne. 

Dost thou faint, mighty Titan? We 

laugh thee to scorn. 
Dost thou boast the clear knowledge 

thou waken'dst for man ? 
Then was kindled within him a thirst 

which outran 
Those perishing waters ; a thirst of 

fierce fever, 
Hope, love, doubt, desire, which con- 
sume him for ever. 
One came forth of gentle worth 
Smiling on the sanguine earth ; 
His words outlived him, like swift 
poison 
Withering up truth, peace, and 
pity. 
Look ! where round the wide hori- 
zon 
Many a million-peopled city 
Vomits smoke in the bright air. 
Mark that outcry of despair ! 
'T is his mild and gentle ghost 

Wailing for the faith he kindled : 
Look again, the flames almost 
To a glow-worm's lamp have 
dwindled : 
The survivors round the embers 
Gather in dread. 
Joy, joy, joy ! 
Past ages crowd on thee, but each one 

remembers. 
And the future is dark, and the present 

is spread 
Like a pillow of thorns for thy slum- 
berless head. 



I'llO.MKLMl KUS UNHOLTND. 



181 



ScinlehorHs I. 
Drops of bloody agony flow 
From his white aiul quivering 
I brow. 

Grant a little respite now : 
See a disenchanted natinn 
Springs like day from disolation ; 
To Truth its state is dedicate, 
And Freedom leads it forth, her 

mate ; 
A legioned ban of linked brothers 
\Vhoni Love calls children — 
Sonichorits II. 

'T is another's : 
See how kindred murder kin : 
'T is the vintage-time for death 

and sin : 
Blood, like new wine, bubbles within: 
Till Despair smothers 
The struggling world, which slaves 
and tyrants win. 
[All the Furies vanish except one. 
lone. Hark, sister! what a low yet 
dreadful groan. 
Quite unsupprest is tearing up the 

heart 
Of the good Titan, as storms tear the 

deep, 
And beasts hear the sea moan in in- 
land caves. 
Darest thou observe how the fiends 
torture him ? 
Pcnitlicd. Alas ! I looked forth 

twice, but will no more. 
lone. What didst thou see ? 
Piinthca. Awofulsight: a youth 
With patient looks nailed to a crucifix. 
ioHf. What next ? 
Pcnithea. The heaven around, the 
earth below 
Was peopled with thick shapes of 

human death. 
All horrible, and wrought by human 

hands. 
And some appeared the work of human 

hearts. 
For men were slowly killed by frowns 

and smiles : 
And other sights too foul to speak and 

live 
Were wandering by. Let us not tempt 

worse fear 
By looking forth : those groans are 
grief enough. 
Fury. Behold an emblem : those 
who do endure 
Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and 

chains, but heap 
Thousand-fold torment on themselves 
and him. 
Prometheus. Remit the anguish of 
that lighted stare ; 



Clos(! those wan lips ; let that thorn- 
wounded brow 
Stream not with blood ; it mingles with 

thy tears ! 
Fix, fix those tortured orbs in peace 

and death. 
So thy sick throes shake not that cru- 
cifix, 
So those pale fingers play not with thy 

gore. 
O, horrible ! thy name I will not speak, 
It hath become a curse. I see, I see 
The wise, the mild, the lofty, and the 

just. 
Whom thy slaves hate for being like to 

thee, 
Some hunted by foul lies from their 

heart's home. 
An early-chosen, late-lamented home ; 
As hooded ounces cling to the driven 

hind ; 
Some linkt to corpse in unwholesome 

cells : 
Some— Hear I not the multitude laugh 

loud ?— 
Impaled in lingering fire : and mighty 

realms 
Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted 

isles, 
Whose sons are kneadod down in com- 
mon blood 
By the red light of their own burning 

homes. 
Fury. Blood thou canst see, and 

fire ; and canst hear groans ; 
Worse tilings, unheard, unseen, remain 

behind. 
Pronictheus. Worse ? 
Fury. In each human heart terror 

survives 
The ruin it has gorged ; the loftiest 

fear 
All that they would disdain to think 

were true : 
Hypocrisy and custom nuike their 

minds 
The fanes of many a worship, now out- 
worn. 
They dare not devise good for man's 

estate. 
And yet they know not that they do 

not dare. 
The good want power, but to weep 

barren tears. 
The powerful goodness want : worse 

need for them. 
The wise want love ; and those who 

love want wLsdom ; 
And all best things are thus confused 

to ill. 
Many are strong and rich, and would 

be just, 



182 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Beyond that twilight realm, as in a , 

glass, ' 

The future : maj^ they speak comfort 

to thee ! x 

Panthca. Look, sister, where a ' 

troop of spirits gather, 
Like flocks of clouds in spring's de- * 

lightf 111 weather, ^ 

Thronging in the blue air ! 

lone. And see ! more come, t 

Like fountain vapors when the winds ' 

are dumb, 
That climb up the ravine in scattered 

lines. 
And, hark ! is it the music of the i 

pines ? 
Is it the lake ? Is it the waterfall ? 4 
Panthca. 'T is something sadder, 

sweeter far than all. ' 

Chorus of Spirits. 
From unremembered ages we 
Gentle guides and guardians be 
Of heaven-opprest mortality ; < 

And we breathe, and sicken not. 
The atmosphere of human thought : I 
Be it dim, and dank, and gray, 
Like a storm-extinguisht day, ^ 

Travelled o'er by dying gleams ; 

Be it bright as all between 
Cloudless skies and windless streams, 

Silent, liquid, and serene ; 
As the birds within the wind. 

As the fish Avithin the wave, / 

As the thoughts of man's own mind *^ 

Float thro' all above the grave ; 
We make there our liquid lair, i 

Voyaging cloudlike and unpent / 

Thro' the boundless element : I 

Thence we bear the prophecy ' 

Which begins and ends in thee ! /! 

lone. More yet come, one by one :\ 

the air around them . 

Looks radiant as the air around a star, i 
First Spirit. |i 

On a battle-trumpet's blast \ 

I fled hither, fast, fast, fast, 
Mid the darkness upward cast. 
From the dust of creeds outworn, i 

From the tyrant's banner torn. 
Gathering round me, onward borne, j^ 
There was mingled many a cry— S 

Freedom ! Hope ! Death ! Victory ! } 
Till they faded thro' the sky ; 
And one sound, above, around, 
One sound beneath, around, above. 
Was moving ; 't was the soul of love ; 
'T was the hope, the prophecy, 
Which begins and ends in thee. 

Scco)td Spirit. 
A rainbow's arch stood on the sea, 
Which rockt beneath, immovably ; 
And he triumphant storm did flee, 



But live among their suffering fellow- 
men 
As if none felt : they know not what 

they do. 
Prometheus. Thy words are like a 

cloud of winged snakes ; 
And yet I pity those they torture not. 
Fury. Thou pitiest them ? I speak 

no more ! [I^anishes. 

Prometheus. Ah woe ! 

Ah woe ! Alas ! pain, pain ever, for 

ever ! 
I close my tearless eyes, but see more 

clear 
Thy works witliin my woe-illumed 

mind. 
Thou subtle tyrant ! Peace is in the 

grave. 
The grave hides all things beautiful 

and good : 
I am a God and cannot find it there. 
Nor would I seek it : for, tho' dread 

revenge. 
This is defeat, fierce king, not victory. 
The sights with which thou torturest 

gird my soul 
With new endurance, till the hour 

arrives 
When they shall be no types of things 

which are. 
Panthea. Alas ! what sawest thou ? 
Prometheus. There are two woes : 
To speak, and to behold ; thou spare 

me one. 
Names are there. Nature's sacred 

watchwords, they 
Were borne aloft in bright embla- 
zonry ; 
The nations thronged around, and 

cried aloud, 
As with one voice, Truth, liberty, and 

love ! 
Suddenly fierce confusion fell from 

heaven 
Among them : there was strife, deceit, 

and fear : 
Tyrants rushed in, and did divide the 

spoil. 
This was the shadow of the truth I 

saw. 
The Eartli. I felt thy torture, son, 

with such mixt joy 
As pain and virtue give. To cheer 

thy state 
I bid ascend those subtle and fair 

spirits. 
Whose homes are the dim caves of 

human thought. 
And who inhabit, as birds wing the 

wind. 
Its world-surrounding ether ; they be- 
hold 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



183 



Like a conqueror, swift and proud, 
Between, with many a captive cloud, 
A shapeless, dark and rapid crowd, 

) Each by lijrhtninp: riven in half : 
I heard the thunder hoarsely laujjh : 

t Mighty fleets were strewn like chaff 
And spread beneath a hell of death 
O'er the white waters. I alit 
On a great ship lightning-split, 
And speeded hither on the sigh 
Of one who gave an enemy 
His plank, then plunged aside to die. 

Third Spirit. 
I sate beside a sage's bed, 
And the lamp was burning red 
Near the book where he had fed. 
When a Dream with plumes of flame, 
To his pillow hovering came, 
And I knew it was the same 
Which had kindled long ago 
Pity, eloquence, and woe ; 
And the world awhile below 
Wore the shade, its lustre made. 
It has borne me here as fleet 
As Desire's lightning feet : 
I must ride it back ei-e morrow, 
Or the sage will wake in sorrow. 

Fourth Spirit. 
On a poet's lips I slept 
Dreaming like a love-adept 
In the sound his breathing kept ; 
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses. 
But feeds on the aerial kisses 
Of shapes that haunt thought's wilder- 
nesses. 
He will watch from dawn to gloom 
The lake- reflected sun illume 
The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom. 
Nor heed nor see, what thitigstheybe; 
But from these create he can 
Forms more real than living man. 
Nurslings of immortality ! 
One of these aw^akened me, 
And I sped to succor thee. 

lOllf. 

Behold'st thou not two shapes from the 

east and west 
Come, as two doves to one beloved 

ne.st, 
Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air 
On swift still wings glide down the 

atmosphere ? 
And, hark ! their sweet, sad voices ! 

'tis despair 
Mingled with love and then dissolved 

sound. 
Panthca. Canst thou speak, sister? 

all my words are drowned. 
lone. Their beauty gives me voice. 

See how they float 
On their sustaining wings of skyey 

grain, 



Orange and azure deepening into gold : 
Their soft smiles light the air like a 

star's fire. 

Chorus of Spirits. 
Hast thou beheld the form of love ? 
Fifth Spirit. 
As over wide dominions 
I sped, like some swift cloud that wings 

the wide air's wildernesses. 
That planet-crested shape swept hy on 

lightning-braided pinions, 
Scattering the liquid joy of life from 

his ambrosial tres.ses : 
His footsteps paved the world with 

light ; but as I past 't was fading, 
And hollow Ruin yawned behind : 

great sages bound in madness. 
And headless patriots, and pale youths 

who perished, luiupbraiding, 
Gleamed in the night. I wandered 

o'er 'till thou, O King of sadness, 
Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to 

recollected gladness. 
Si.vth Spirit. 
Ah, sister ! Desolation is a delicate 

thing : 
It walks not on the earth, it floats not 

on the air. 
But treads with killing footsteps, and 

fans with silent wing 
The tender hopes which in their hearts 

the best and gentlest bear ; 
Who, soothed to false repose by the 

fanning plumes above 
And the music-stirring motion of its 

soft and busy feet. 
Dream visions of aerial joy, and call 

the monster, Love, 
And wake, and find the shadow Pain. 

as he whom now we greet. 
C/)on/.s. 
Tho' Ruin novv^ Love's shadow be, 
Following him, destroyingly, 

On Death's white and winged steed, 
Which the fleetest cannot flee. 
Trampling down both flower and 

weed 
Man and beast, and foul and fair, 
Like a tempest thro' the air ; 
Thou shalt quell this horseman grim. 
Woundless tho' in heart or limb. 
Prometheus. Spirits ! how know ye 

this shall be ? 

Chorus. 
In the atmosphere we breathe, 
As buds grow red when the snow- 
storms flee. 
From spring gathering up beneath, 
Whose niiid winds shake the elder 

brake, 
And tlie wandering herdsmen know 
That the white-thorn soon will blow : 



184 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, 
Wlien tliey struggle to increase, 
Are to us as soft winds be 
To sliepherd boys, the prophecy 
Which begins and ends in thee. 
lone. Where are the Spirits fled ? 
Panthea. Only a sense 

Remains of them, like the omnipo- 
tence. 
Of music, when the inspired voice and 

lute 
Languish ere yet the responses are 

mute, 
Which thro' the deep and labyrinthine 

soul, 
Like echoes thro' long caverns, wind 
and roll. 
Prometheus. How fair these air- 
born shapes ! and yet I feel 
Most vain all hope but love ; and thou 

art far, 
Asia ! who, when my being overflowed, 
Wert like a golden chalice to bright 

wine 
Which else had sunk into the thirsty 

dust. 
All things are .still : alas ! how heavily 
This quiet morning weighs upon my 

heart ; 
Tho' I should dream I could even sleep 

with grief 
If slumber were denied not. I would 

fain 
Be what it is my destiny to be, 
The savior and the strength of suffer- 
ing man, 
Or sink into the original gulf of things: 
There is no agony, and no solace left ; 
Earth can console, Heaven can torment 
Tio more. 
Panthea. Hast thou forgotten one 
who watches thee 
The oold dark night, and never sleeps 

but when 
The shadow of thy spirit falls on her ? 
PromeUiem. I .said all hope was 

vain but love : thou lovest. 
Panthea. Deeply in truth ; but the 
eastern star looks white, 
And Asia waits in that far Indian vale 
The scene of her sad exile ; rugged 

once 
And desolate and frozen, like this ra- 
vine ; 
But now invested with fair flowers and 

herbs. 
And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, 

which flow 
Among the woods and waters, from the 

ether 
Of her transforming pre.sence, which 
would fade 



If it were mingled not with thine. 
Farewell ! 

END OF THE FIRST ACT. " 



ACT II. 

SCENE I.— Morning. A lovely 
Vale in the Indian Caucasus. 
Asia alone. 

Asia. Prom all the blasts of heaven 
thou hast descended : 
Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which 

makes 
Unwonted tears throng to the horny 

eyes. 
And beatings haunt the desolated 

heart. 
Which should have learned repose : 

thou hast descended 
Cradled in tempests ; thou dost wake, 

O Spring ! 
O child of many winds ! As suddenly 
Thou comest as the memory of a 

dream. 
Which now is sad because it hath been 

sweet ; 
Like genius, or like joy which riseth up 
As from the earth, clothing with 

golden clouds 
The desert of our life. 
This is tlie reason, this the day, the 

hour ; 
At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet 

sister mine, 
Too long desired, too long delaying, 

come ! 
How like death-worms the wingless ' 

moments crawl ! 
The point of one white star is quiver- 
ing still 
Deep in the orange light of widening 

morn 
Beyond the purple mountains : thro' a 

chasm 
Of wind-divided mist the darker lake 
Reflects it : now it wanes : it gleams 

again i 

As the waves fade, and as the burning 

threads 
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air : 
'T is lost ! and thro' yon peaks of cloud- 
like snow 
The roseate sunlight quivers : hear I , 

not 
The ^olian music of her sea-green [ 

plumes 
Winnowing the crimson dawn ? 1 

["Panthea enters. ' 
I feel, I see 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



1S5 



Those eyes which burn thro' smiles 

that fade in tears, 
Like stars half quencht in mists of 
I silver dew. 

Beloved and most beautiful, who wear- 

est 
The shadow of that soul by wliich I 

live. 
How late thou art ? the sphei-ed sun 

had climbed 
The sea ; my heart was sick with hope, 

before 
The printless air felt thy belated 

plumes. 
Paitthea. Pardon, great Sister ! but 

my wings were faint 
With the delight of a remembered 

dream. 
As are the noontide plumes of summer 

winds 
Satiate with sweet flowers. I was 

wont to sleep 
Peacefullj', and awake refresht and 

calm 
Before the sacred Titan's fall, and thy 
Unhappy love, had made, thro' use and 

pity, 

Both love and w-o familiar to my heart 
As they had grown to thine : erewhile 

I .slept 
Under the glaucous caverns of old 

Ocean 
"Within dim bowers of green and purple 

moss. 
Our young Tone's soft and milky arms 
Locked then, as now, behind my dark, 

moist hair, 
AVhile my shut eyes and cheek were 

pressed within 
The folded depth of her life-breathing 

bosom : 
But not as now, since I am made the 

wind 
Which fails beneath the music that I 

bear 
Of thy most wordless converse ; since 

dissolved 
Into the sense with which love talks, 

my rest 
Was troubled and yet sweet ; my wak- 
ing hours 
Too full of care and pain. 

Asia. Lift up thine eyes. 

And let me read thy dream. 

Panthca. As I have said 

With our sea-sister at his feet I slept. 
The mountain mists, condensing at our 

voice 
Under the moon, had spread their 

snowy flakes. 
From the keen ice shielding our linked 

sleep. 



Then two dreams came. One, I remem- 
ber not 
But in the other his pale wound-worn 

limbs 
Fell from Prometheus, and the azure 

night 
Grew radiant with the glory of that 

form 
Which lives unchanged within, and 

his voice fell 
Like music which makes giddy the 

dim brain, 
Faint with intoxication of keen joy : 
"Sister of her whose footsteps pave 

the world 
With loveliness— more fair than aught 

but her, 
Whose shadow thou art— lift thine 

eyes on me." 
I lifted them : the overpowering light 
Of that immortal shape was shadowed 

o'er 
By love ; which, from his soft and flow- 
ing limbs, 
And passion-parted lips, and keen, 

faint ej'es, 
Steamed forth like vaporous fire ; an 

atmosphere 
Which wrapt me in its all dissolving 

power. 
As the warm ether of the morning 

sun 
Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wan- 
dering dew. 
I saw not, heard not, moved not, only 

felt 
His presence flow and mingle thro" my 

blood 
Till it became his life, and his grew 

mine, 
And I was thus absorbed, until it past. 
And like the vapors when the sun sinks 

down, 
Gathering again in drops upon the 

pines. 
And tremulous as thej-, in the deep 

night 
My being was condenst ; and as the 

rays 
Of thought were slowly gathered, I 

could hear 
His voice, whose accents lingered ere 

they died 
Like footsteps of weak melody : thy 

name 
Among the many sounds alone I heard 
Of what might be articulate ; tho' still 
I listened thro' the night when sound 

was none, 
lone wakened then, and said to me : 
" Canst thou divine what troubles me 

to-night ? 



186 



PKOMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



I always knew what I desired before, 
Nor ever found delight to wish in vain. 
But now I cannot tell thee what I seek ; 
I know not ; something sweet, since it 

is sweet 
Even to desire ; it is thy sport, false 

sister ; 
Thou hast discovered some enchant- 
ment old, 
Whose spells have stolen my spirit as 

I slept 
And mingled it with thine : for when 

just now 
We kist, I felt within thy parted lips 
The sweet air that sustained me, and 

the warmth 
Of the life-blood, for loss of which I 

faint. 
Quivered between our intertwining 

arms." 
I answered not, for the Eastern star 

grew pale, 
But fled to thee. 

Asia. Thou speakest, but thy words 
Are as the air : I feel them not : O lift 
Thine eyes, that I may read his written 

soul ! 
Panthea. I lift them tho' they droop 

beneath the load 
Of that they would express : what 

canst thou see 
But thine own fairest shadow imaged 

there ? 
Asia. Thine eyes are like the deep, 

blue, boundless heaven 
Contracted to two circles underneath 
Their long, fine lashes ; dark, far, 

measureless, 
Orb within orb, and line thro' line in- 
woven. 
Panthea. Why lookest thou as if a 

spirit past ? 
Asia. There is a change : beyond 

their inmost depth 
I see a shade, a shape : 't is He, arrayed 
In the soft light of his own smiles, 

which spread 
Like radiance from the cloud-sur- 
rounded moon. 
Prometheus, it is thine ! depart not 

yet ! 
Say not those smiles that we shall meet 

again 
Within that bright pavilion which 

their beams 
Shall build on the waste world ? The 

dream is told. 
What shape is that between us ? Its 

rude hair 
Roughens the wind that lifts it, its 

regard 
Is wild and quick, yet 't is a thing of air 



For thro' its gray robe gleams the gold- 
en dew 
Whose stars the noon has quencht not. 
Dream. Follow ! Follow ! 

Panthea. It is mine other dream. 
Asia. It disappears. 

Panthea. It passes now into my 

mind. Methought 
As we sate here, the flower-infolding 

buds, 
Burst on yon lightning-blasted almond 

tree, 
When swift from the white Scythian 

wilderness 
A wind swept forth wrinkling the 

Earth with frost : 
I lookt, and all the blossoms were 

blown down ; 
But on each leaf was stampt, as the 

blue bells 
Of Hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief, 

O, FOLLOW, FOLLOW 1 

Asia. As you speak, your words 

Fill, pause by pause, my own forgotten 

sleep 
With shapes. Methought among the 

lawns together 
We wandered, underneath the young 

gray dawn, 
And multitudes of dense white fleecy 

clouds 
Were wandering in thick flocks along 

the mountains 
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling 

wind ; 
And the white dew on the new bladed 

grass. 
Just piercing the dark earth, hung 

silently : 
And there was more which I remember 

not : 
But on the shadows of the morning 

clouds. 
Athwart the purple mountain slope, 

was written [by, 

Follow, O, follow ! as they vanisht 
And on each herb, from which Heaven's 

dew had fallen, 
The like was stampt, as with a wither- 
ing fire, 
A wind arose among the pines ; it 

shook 
The clinging music from their boughs, 

and then 
Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the fare- 
well of ghosts. 
Were heard : O, follow, follow, 

FOLLOW ME ! 

And then I said: "Panthea, look on 

me." 
But in the depth of those beloved eyes 

Still I saw, FOLLOW, FOLLOW 1 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



187 



f-jcho. Follow, follow ! 

Pttuthcii. Tlit> crags, this clear 
spring nioniiiig, mock our voices 
As they wore spirit-toiigued. 

Asia. It is some being 

Around the crags. What fine clear 
sounds ! O, list ! 

EchocH (unxccn). 
Echoes we : listen ! 
We cannot stay : 
As dew-stars glis'ten 
Then fade away — 
Child of Ocean ! 
Asia. Hark ! Spirits speak. The 
liquid responses 
Of their aerial tongues yet sound. 
Panthca. I hear. 

Echoes. 
O, follow, follow. 

As our voice recedeth 
Thro' the caverns hollow, 
AYhere the forest spreadeth ; 
(Mori' distant.) 
O, follow, follow ! 
Thro' the caverns hollow, 
As the song floats thou pursue, 
Where the wild bee never flew, 
Thro' the noontide darkness deep. 
By the odor-breathing sleep 
Of faint night-flowers, and the waves 
At the fountain-lighted caves, 
AVhile our music, wild and sweet, 
Mocks thy gently falling feet, 
Child of Ocean ! 
^■Isia. Shall we pursue the sound? 
It grows more faint 
And distant. 
PautJica. List ! the strain floats 

nearer now. 

Ecii ocs. 
In the world unknown 

Sleeps a voice unspoken ; 
By thy step alone 
Can its rest be broken ; 
Child of Ocean ! 
Asia. How the notes sink upon the 
ebbing wind ! 
EcIkxs. 
O, follow, follow ! 
Thro' the caverns hollow. 
As the song floats thou pursue. 
By the woodland noontide dew ; 
By the forests, lakes, and fountains 
Thro' the many-folded moimtains ; 
To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms. 
Where the Earth reposed from spasms. 
On the day when He and thou 
Parted, to commingle now ; 
Child of Ocean ! 
Asia. Come, sweet Panthea, link 
thy hand in mine, 
And follow, ere the voices fade away. 



SCENE II. — A FOUEST, INTKRMIN- 

GLED WITH Rocks and Caverns. 

Asia and Panthea pass into it. Tioo 
young Fa^ms are sittimj on a 
Rock listenin<j. 

Scmichorns I. of Spirits. 
The path thro' which that lovely twain 
Have past, by cedar, pine, and yew. 
And each dark tree that ever grew. 
Is curtained out from Heaven's wide 

blue ; 
Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain, 
Can pierce its interwoven bowers, 
Nor aught, save where some cloud of 
dew, 
Drifted along the earth-creeping 

breeze, 
Between the trunks of the hoar trees, 
Hangs each a pearl in the pale 
flowers 
Of the green laurel, blown anew ; 
And bends, and then fades silently. 
One frail and fair anemone : 
Or when some star of many a one 
That climbs and wanders thro' steep 

night. 
Has found the cleft thro' which alone 
Beams fall from high those depths 

upon 
Ere it is borne away, away. 
By the swift Heavens that cannot stay, 
It scatters drops of golden light. 
Like lines of rain that ne'er unite : 
And the gloom divine is all around. 
And underneath is the mossy ground. 

Semicliorus II. 
There the voluptuous nightingales. 
Are awake thro' all the broad noon- 
day. 
When one with bliss or sadness fails, 
And thro' the windless ivy-boughs, 
Sick with sweet love, droops dying 
away 
On its mate's music-panting bosom ; 
Another from the swinging blossom. 
Watching to catch the languid 
close 
Of the last strain, then lifts on high 
The wings of the weak melody. 
Till some new strain of feeling bear 
The song, and all the woods are 
mute ; 
When there is heard thro' the dim air 
The rush of wings, and rising there 

Like many a lake-surrounded flute, 
Sounds overflow the listener's brain 
So sweet, that joy is almost pain. 

SeniicliovKN I. 
There those enchanted eddies play 



188 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Of echoes, music-tongued, which 

draw, 
By Demogoi'gon's mighty law, 
With melting rapture, or sweet awe, 
All spirits on that secret way ; 

As inland boats are driven to Ocean 
Down streams made strong with moun- 
tain-thaw : 
And first there comes a gentle 

sound 
To those in talk or slumber bound, 
And wakes the destined. Soft emo- 
tion 
Attracts, impels them : those who saw 
Say from the breathing earth behind 
There steams a plume-uplifting wind 
Which drives them on their path, while 
they 
Believe their own swift wings and 
feet 
The sweet desires within obey : 
And so they float upon their way, 
Until, still sweet, but loud and strong, 
The storm of sound is driven along, 
Suckt up and hurrying : as they fleet 
Behind, its gathering billows meet 
And to the fatal mountain bear 
Like clouds amid the yielding air. 
First Faun. Canst thou imagine 
where tliose spirits live 
Which make such delicate music in 

the woods y 
We haunt within the least frequented 

caves 
And closest coverts, and we know 

these wilds, 
Yet never meet them, tho' we hear 

them oft : 
Where may they hide themselves ? 

Second Faun. 'T is hard to tell : 

I have heard those more skilled in 

spirits say. 
The bubbles, which the enchantment 

of the sun 
Sucks from the pale faint water-flowers 

that pave 
The oozy bottom of clear lakes and 

pools. 
Are the pavilions where such dwell and 

float 
Under the green and golden atmos- 
phere 
Which noontide kindles thro' the 

woven leaves ; 
And when these burst, and the thin 

fiery air, 
The which they breathed within those 

lucent domes. 
Ascends to flow like meteors thro' the 

night. 
They ride on them, and rein their 
headlong speed, 



And bow their burning crests, and 

glide in fire 
Under the waters of the earth again. 
First Fatal. If such live thus, have 

others other lives, 
Under pink blossoms or within the 

bells 
Of meadow flowers, or folded violets 

deep, 
Or on their dying odors, when they die. 
Or in the sunliglit of the sphered dew ? 
Sccoiul F(nni. Ay, many more 

which we may well divine. 
But, should we stay to speak, noontide 

would come. 
And thwart Silenus find his goats un- 
drawn. 
And grudge to sing those wise and 

lovely songs 
Of fate, and chance, and God, and 

Chaos old. 
And Love, and the chained Titan's wo- 

ful doom, 
And how he shall be loost, and make 

the earth 
One brotherhood : delightful strains 

which cheer 
Our solitary twilights, and which 

charm 
To silence the unenvying nightingales. 

SCENE III.— A Pinnacle of Rock 

AMONG Mountains. Asia and 
Panthea. 

Panthca. Hither the sound has 

borne us — to the realm 
Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal^ 
Like a volcano's meteor-breathing 

chasm. 
Whence the oracular vapor is hurled up 
Which lonelj' men drink wandering in 

their youth. 
And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or 

joy, 
That maddening wine of life, whose 

dregs they drain 
To deep intoxication ; and uplift. 
Like Mfenads who cry loud, Evoe ! 

Evoe 1 
The voice which is contagion to the 

world. 
Asia. Fit throne for such a power ! 

Magnificent ! 
How glorious art thou. Earth ! And if 

thou be 
The shadow of some spirit lovelier still. 
Though evil stain its work, and it 

should be 
Like its creation, weak yet beautiful, 
I could fall down and worship that and 

thee. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



189 



Jven now my heart adoreth : Wonder- 
ful ! 
LiOok, sister, ere the vapor dim thy 

brain : 
Beneath is a wide plain of billowy mist, 
\s a lake, paving in the morning sky, 
Ivith azure waves which burst in silver 

light, 
^ome Indian vale. Behold it, roUmg on 
Under the curdling winds, and island- 
ing 
rhe peak whereon we stand, midway, 

around, 
Encinctured by the dark and blooming 

forests, 
Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-il- 
I lumined caves, 

And wind-enchanted shapes of wander- 
ing mist ; 
And far on high the keen sky-cleaving 

mountains 
From icy spires of sun-like radiance 

fling 
The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling 

spray, 
From some Atlantic islet scattered up, 
Spangles the wind with lamp-like 

water-drops. 
The vale is girdled with their walls, a 

howl 
Of cataracts from their thaw-cloven 

ravines, 
, Satiates the listening wind, continuous, 

vast, 
Awful as silence. Hark 1 the rushing 

snow ! 
The sun-awakened avalanche ! whose 

niciss 
Thrice sifted by the storm, had gath- 
ered there 
Flake after flake, in heaven-defying 

minds 
As thought by thought is piled, till 

some great truth 
Is loosened, and the nations echo 

round, 
Shaken to their roots, as do the moun- 
tains now. 
Panthca. Look how the gusty sea 
of mist is breaking 
In crimson foam, even at our feet ! it 

rises 
As Ocean at the enchantment of the 

moon 

Round foodless men wreckt on some 

oozy isle. , ^ 

Asia. The fragments of the cloud 

are scattered up ; 

The wind that lifts them disentwines 

my hair ; 
Its billows now sweep o'er mine eyes ; 
my brain 



Grows dizzy ; I see thin shapes within 
the mist. 
Panthca. A countenance with beck- 
oning smiles : there burns 
An azure fire within its golden locks I 
Another and another : hark ! they 
speak ! 

Song of Spirits. 
To the deep, to "the deep, 

Down, down ! 
Through the shade of sleep. 
Through the cloudy strife 
Of Death and of Life ; 
Through the veil and the bar 
Of things which seem and are 
Even to the steps of the remotest 
throne, 

Down, down ! 
While the sound whirls around, 

Down, down ! 
As the fawn draws the hound, 
As the lightning the vapor. 
As a weak moth the taper ; 
Death, despair ; love, sorrow ; 
Time both ; to-day, to-morrow ; 
As steel obeys the spirit of the stone, 
Down, down ! 



Through the gray, void abysm, 

Down, down ! 
Where the air is no prism. 
And the moon and stars are not. 
And the cavern-crags wear not 
The radiance of Heaven, 
Nor the gloom to Earth given. 
Where there is one pervading, one 
alone, 

Down, down ! 



In the depth of the deep 

Down, down ! 
Like veiled lightning asleep, 
Like the spark nursed in embers. 
The last look Love remembers. 
Like a diamond, which shines 
On the dark wealth of mines, 
A spell is treasured but for thee alone, 

Down, down ! 

We have bound thee, we guide thee; 

Down, down ! 
With the bright form beside thee ; 
Resist not the weakness, 
Such strength is in meekness 
That the Eternal, the Immortal, 
JMust unloose through life's portal 
The snake-like Doom coiled underneath 
his throne 

By that alone. 



190 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



SCENE IV.— The Cavk of Demo- 
GORGON. Asia and Panthea. 

Panthca. What veiled form sits on 

tliat ebon tlirone ? 
Asia. The veil has fallen. 
Panthca. I see a mighty darkness 
Filling the seat of power, and rays of 

gloom 
Dart round as light from the meridian 

sun, 
Ungazed upon and shapeless ; neither 

limb, 
Nor form, nor outline ; yet we feel it is 
A living Spirit. 
Dcinogonion. Ask what thou 

would'st know. 
Asia. What canst thou tell ? 
Dcniorionjoii. All things thou 

dar'st demand. 
Asia. Who made the living world ? 
lJemi)(jor<jon. God. 

Asia. ' Who made all 

That it contains ? thought, passion, 

reason, will. 
Imagination ? 
Dcinoijor(io)}. God : Almighty God. 
Asia. Who made that sense which, 
when the winds of spring 
In rarest visitation, or the voice 
Of one beloved heard in youth alone, 
Fills the faint eyes with 'falling tears 

which dim 
The radiant looks of unbewailing 

flowers, 
And leaves this peopled earth a solitude 
When it returns no more ? 
Dcmorjonjon. Merciful God. 

Asia. And who made terror, mad- 
ness, crime, remorse. 
Which from the links of the great chain 

of things, 
To every thought within the mind of 

man 
Sway and drag heavily, and each one 

reels 
Under the load towards the pit of 

death ; 
Abandoned hope, and love that turns 

to hate ; 
And self-contempt, bitterer to drink 

than blood ; 
Pain, whose unheeded and familiar 

speech 
Is howling, and keen shrieks, day after 

day ; 
And Hel'l, or the sharp fear of Hell ? 
Dcmnyorgon. He reigns. 

Asia. Utter his name : a world pin- 
ing in pain 
Asks but his name : curses shall drag 
him down. 



Dan<)(jor()on. He reigns. 
Asia. I feel, I know it : who ? 
Dcmogorgon. He reigns. 

Asia.. Who reigns? There was the 

Heaven and Earth at first, 
And Light and Love ; then Saturn, 

from whose throne 
Time fell, an envious shadow : such the 

state 
Of the earth's primal spirits beneath 

his sway. 
As the calm joy of flowers and living 

leaves 
Before the wind or sun has withered 

them 
And semivital worms ; but he refused 
The birthright of their being, knowl- 
edge, power. 
The skill which wields the elements,, 

the thought 
Which pierces this dim universe like 

light, 
Self-empire, and the majesty of love ; 
For thirst of which they fainted. Then J 

Prometheus 
Gave wisdom, which is strength, to 

Jupiter, 
And with this law alone, " Let man 

be free," 
Clothed him with the dominion of wide! 

Heaven. I 

To know nor faith, nor love, nor law : 

to be 
Omnipotent but friendless is to reign; 
And Jove now reigned ; for on the race 

of man 
First famine, and then toil, and then 

disease. 
Strife, wounds, and ghastly death un- 
seen before. 
Fell ; and the unseasonable seasons 

drove 
With alternating shafts of frost and 

fire, 
Their shelterless, pale tribes to moun- 
tain caves : 
And in their desert hearts fierce wants 

he sent. 
And mad disquietudes, and shadows 

idle 
Of unreal good, which levied mutual 

war. 
So ruining the lair wherein they i 

raged- 
Prometheus saw, and waked the 

legioned hopes 
Which sleep within folded Elysian 

flowers, ^ 

Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth, fadeless 

blooms, , 

That they might hide with thin and 

rainbow wings 



TKOMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



I'Ji 



The shape of Death ; and Love he sent 

to bind 
The disunited tendrils ol: that vine 
Which bears the wine of life, the 

human heart ; 
And he tamed fire which, like some 

beast of prey. 
Most terrible, but lovely, played be- 
neath 
The frown of man ; and tortured to 

his will 
Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of 

power. 
And gems and poisons, and all subtlest 

forms 
Hidden beneath the mountains and the 

waves. 
He gave man speech, and speech 

CI ated thought, 
Which is the measure of the universe; 
And ycience struck the thrones of 

earth and heaven. 
Which shook, but fell not ; and the 

harmonious mind 
Poured itself forth in all-prophetic 

song ; 
And mifsic lifted up the listening 

spirit 
Until it walkt, exempt from mortal 

care. 
Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet 

sound ; 
And human hands first mimickt and 

then mockt. 
With moulded limbs more lovely than 

its own, 
The human form, till marble grew 

divine ; 
And mothers, gazing, drank the love 

men see 
Reflected in their race, behold, and 

perish. 
He told the hidden power of herbs and 

springs, 
Anu Disease drank and slept. Death 

grew like sleep. 
He taught the implicated orbits woven 
Of the wide-wandering stars ; and how 

the sun 
Changes his lair, and by what secret 

spell 
The pale moon is transformed, when 

her broad eye 
Gazes not on the interiunar sea : 
He taught to rule, as life directs the 

limbs. 
The tempest-winged chariots of the 

Ocean, 
And the Celt knew the Indian. Cities 

then 
Were built, and through their snow- 
like columns flowed 



The warm winds, and the azure ether 

shone, 
And the blue sea and shadowy hills 

were seen. 
Such, the alleviations of his state, 
Prometheus gave to man, for which he 

hangs 
Withering in destined pain : but who 

rains down 
Evil, the immedicable plague, wliicli, 

while 
Man looks on his creation like a God 
And sees that it is glorious, drives him 

on 
The wreck of his own will, the scorn 

of earth. 
The outcast, the abandoned, the alone ? 
Not Jove : while yet his frown shook 

heaven, ay when 
His adversary from adamantine chains 
Curst him, he trembled like a slave. 

Declare 
Who is his master ? Is he too a slave? 
Dcmogorgon. All spirits are en- 
slaved which serve things evil : 
Thou knowest if Jupiter be such or no. 
Asia. Whom called'st thou God ? 
Dcmogorgon. I spoke but as ye 

speak. 
For Jove is the supreme of living 
things. 
Asia. Who is the master of the 

slave ? 
Demogorgon. If the abysm 

Could vomit forth its secrets. . . But 

a voice 
Is wanting, the deep truth is image- 
less ; 
For what would it avail to bid thee 

gaze 
On the revolving world ? What to bid 

speak 
Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and 

Change ? To these 
All things are subject but eternal Love. 
Asia. So much I askt before, and 
my heart gave 
The response thou hast given ; and of 

such truths 
Each to itself must be the oracle. 
One more demand ; and do thou an- 
swer me 
As mine own soul would answer, did it 

know 
That which I ask. Prometheus shall 

arise 
Henceforth the sun of this rejoicing 

world : 
When shall the destined hour arrive ? 
Demogorgon. Behold ! 

Asia.' The rocks are cloven, and 
through the purp'e night 



192 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



I see cars drawn by rainbow-winged 
steeds 

Which trample the dim winds : in each 
there stands 

A wild-eyed charioteer urging their 
flight. 

Some look behind, as fiends pursued 
them there, 

And yet I see no shapes but the keen 
stars : 

Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, 
and drink 

With eager lips the wind of their own 
speed. 

As if the thing they loved fled on be- 
fore. 

And now, even now, they claspt it. 
Their bright locks 

Stream like a comet's flashing hair : 
they all 

SAveep onward. 
DeiiKMjonjoii . These are the immor- 
tal Hours, 

Of whom thou didst demand. One 
waits for thee. 
Asia. A spirit with a dreadful coun- 
tenance 

Checks its dark chariot by the craggy 
gulf. 

Unlike thy brethren, ghastly chariot- 
eer, 

Who art thou ? Whither wouldst thou 
bear me ? Speak ! 
Spirit. I am the shadow of a destiny 

More dread than is my aspect : ere yon 
planet 

Has set, the darkness which ascends 
with me 

Shall wrap in lasting night heaven's 
kingless throne. 
Asia. What meanest thou ? 
Panthca. That terrible shadow 

floats 

Up from its throne, as may the lurid 
smoke 

Of earthquake-ruined cities o'er the 
sea. 

Lo ! it ascends the car ; the coursers 

fly 

Terrified : watch its path among the 
stars 

Blackening the night ! 
Asia. Thus I am answered : 

strange ! 
Panthea. See, near the verge, an- 
other chariot stays ; 

An ivory shell inlaid with crimson 
fire, 

Which comes and goes within its sculp- 
tured rim 

Of delicate strange tracery ; the young 
spirit 



That guides it has the dove-like eyes 

of hope ; 
How its soft smiles attract the soul '. 

as light 
Lures winged insects through the 
lampless air. 

Spirit. 
My coursers are fed with the lightning. 
They drink of the whirlwind's 
stream, 
And when the red morning is bright- 
ning 
They bathe in the fresh sunbeam ; 
They have strength for their swift- 
ness I deem. 
Then ascend with me, daughter of 
Ocean. 

I desire : and their speed makes night 
kindle ; 
I fear : they outstrip the typhoon ; 
Ere the cloud piled on Atlas can dwin- 
dle 
We encircle the earth and the moon ; 
We shall rest from long labors at 
noon : 
Then ascend with me, daughter of 
Ocean. 



SCENE v.— The Car Pauses within 
A Cloud on the Top of a snowy 
Mountain. Asia, Panthea, and 
the Spirit of the Hour. 

Spirit. 
On the brink of the night and the 
morning 
My coursers are wont to respire ; 
But the Earth has just whispered a 
warning 
That their flight must be swifter 

than fire : 
They shall drink the hot speed of 

desire ! 
Asia. Thou breathest on their nos- 
trils, but my breath 
Would give them swifter speed. 
Spirit. Alas ! it could not. 

Panthca. Oh Spirit ! pause, and 
tell whence is the light 
Which fills the cloud ? the sun is yet 
unrisen. 
Spirit. The sun will rise not until 
noon. Apollo 
Is held in heaven by wonder ; and the 

light 
Which fills this vapor, as the aerial hue 
Of fountain-gazing roses fills the water. 
Plows from thy mighty sister. 
Panthca. Yes, I feel— 



ritO.METHEUS UNBOUND. 



lo:] 



Asiii. What is it with thee, sister? 

Thou art pale. 
Panthca. How thou art changed ! I 

dare not look on thee ; 
I feel but see thee not. 1 scarce en- 
dure 
The radiance ot thy beauty. Some 

good change 
Is working in the elements, which suf- 
fer 
Thy presence thus unveiled. The 

Nereids tell 
That on the day when the clear hyaline 
Was cloven at thy uprise and thou 

didst stand 
Within a veined shell, which floated on 
Over the calm floor of the crystal sea, 
Among the .Egean isles, and by the 

shores 
Which bear thy name ; love, like the 

atmosphere 
Of the sun's fire filling the living world, 
Burst from thee, and illumined earth 

and heaven 
And the deep ocean and the sunless 

caves 
And all that dwells within them ; till 

grief cast 
Eclipse upon the soul from which it 

came : 
Such art thou now ; nor is it I alone, 
Thy sister, thy companion, thine own 

chosen one. 
But the whole world which seeks thy 

sympathy. 
Hearest thou not sounds i' the air 

which speak the love 
Of all articulate beings ? Feelest thou 

not 
The inanimate winds enamoured of 

thee? List! (Music.) 
Ab'<t. Thy words are sweeter than 

aught else but his 
Whose echoes they are : yet all love is 

sweet. 
Given or returned. Common as light 

is love, 
And its familiar voice wearies not ever. 
Like the wide heaven, the all-sustain- 
ing air. 
It makes the reptile equal to the God : 
They who inspire it most are fortunate, 
As I am now ; but those who feel it 

most 
Are happier still, after long sufferings. 
As I shall soon become. 
Panthca. List! Spirits speak. 

Voice in the Air, nimiiiig. 
Life of Life ! thy lips enkindle 
With their love the breath between 

them ; 
A.nd thy smiles before they dwindle 

13 



Make the cold air lire ; then .screen 
them 
In those looks, where whoso gazes 
Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of light ! thy limbs are burning 
Thro' the vest which seems to hiclo 
them ; 
As the radiant lines of morning 

Thro' the clouds ere they divide 
them ; 
And this atmosphere divinest 
Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 

Fair are others ; none behold thee, 
But thy voice sounds low and tender 

Like the fairest, for it folds thee 
From the sight, that liquid splendor, 

And all feel, yet see thee never, 

As I feel now, lost for ever ! 

Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest 
Its dim shapes are clad with bright- 
ness. 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds with lightness, 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 

Asia. 
My soul is an enchanted boat, 
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth 
float 
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet 
singing ; 
And thine doth like an angel sit 
Beside a helm conducting it. 
Whilst all the winds with melody are 
ringing. 
It seems to float ever, for evei*, 
Upon that many-winding river. 
Between mountains, woods, abysses, 
A paradise of wildernesses ! 
Till, like one in slumber bound, 
Borne to the ocean, I float down, 

around. 
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading 
sound : 

Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions 
In music's most serene dominions ; 

Catching the winds that fan that happy 
heaven. 
And we sail on, away, afar, 
Without a course, without a star. 

But, by the instinct of sweet music 
driven ; 
Till through Elysian garden islets 
By thee, most beautiful of pilots, 
Where never mortal pinnace glided, 
The boat of my desire is guided : 



194 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Realms where the air we breathe is 

love, 
Which in the v/inds and on the waves 

doth move, 
Hai'monizing this earth, with what we 

feel above. 

We have past Age's icy caves. 
And Manhood's dark and tossing 
waves, 
And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to 
betray : 
Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee 
Of shadow-peopled Infancy, 
Through Death and Birth, to a diviner 
day ; 
A paradise of vaulted bowers, 
Lit by downward-gazing flowers, 
And watery paths that wind between 
Wildernesses calm and green, 
Peopled by shapes to bright to see. 
And rest, having beheld ; somewhat 

like thee ; 
Which walk upon the sea, and chant 
melodiously ! 

END OF THE SECOND ACT. 

ACT III. 

SCENE I.— Heaven. Jupiter ou his 
Throne; Thetis and the other Dei- 
ties assembled. 

Jupiter. Ye congregated powers of 

heaven, who share 
The glory and the strength of him ye 

serve. 
Rejoice ! henceforth I am omnipotent. 
All else had been subdued to me ; 

alone 
The soul of man, like unextinguisht 

fire, 
Yet burns towards heaven with fierce 

reproach, and doubt. 
And lamentation, and reluctant prayer, 
Hurling up insurrection, which might 

make 
Our antique empire insecure, though 

built 
On eldest faith, and hell's coeval, fear ; 
And tho' my curses thro' the pendulous 

air, 
Like snow on herbless peaks, fall flake 

by flake, 
And cling to it ; tho' under my wrath's 

night 
It climbs the crags of life, step after 

step, 
Which wound it, as ice wounds un- 

sandalled feet. 
It yet remains supreme o'er misery. 
Aspiring, um-eprest, yet soon to fall : 



Even now have I begotten a strange 

wonder. 
That fatal child, the terror of the earth, 
Who waits but till the destined hour 

arrive, 
Bearing from Demogorgon's vacant 

throne 
The dreadful might of ever-living 

limbs 
Which clothed that awful spirit unbe- 

held. 
To redescend, and trample out the 

spark. 

Pour forth heaven's wine, Idaean Gany- 
mede, 

And let it fill the daedal cups like fire, 

And from the flower-inwoven soil 
divine 

Ye all triumphant harmonies arise, 

As dew from earth under the twilight 
stars : 

Drink ! be the nectar circling thro' 
your veins 

The soul of joy, ye ever-living Gods, 

Till exultation burst in one wide voice 

Like music from Elysian winds. 

And thou 

Ascend beside me, veiled the light 

Of the desire which makes thee one 
with me, 

Thetis, bright image of eternity ! 

When thou didst cry, " Insufferable 
might ! 

God ! Spare me ! I sustain not the 
quick flames. 

The penetrating presence ; all my 
being. 

Like him whom the Numidian seps did 
thaw 

Into a dew with poison, is dissolved. 

Sinking thro' its foundations : " even 
then 

Two mighty spirits, mingling, made a 
third 

Mightier than either, which, unbodied 
now. 

Between us floats, felt, although unbe- 
held. 

Waiting the incarnation, which as- 
cends, 

(Hear ye the thunder of the fiery wheels 

Griding the winds ?) from Demo- 
gorgon's throne. 

Victory ! victory ! Feel'st thou not, O 
world, 

The earthquake of his chariot thunder- 
ing up 

Olympus ? 
\The Car of the Hour arrives. 
Demogorgon descends, and moves 
towards the Tlirone of Jupiter, 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



195 



Awful shape, what art thou ? 

Speak ! 

DcvKxjorgon. Eternity. Demaud 

no direr name. 

)escenil, and follow me down the abyss. 

am thv child, as thou wert Saturn's 

child ; 
Vlightier than thee : and we must 

dwell together 
Henceforth in darkness. Lift thy 

lightnings not. 
The tyranny of heaven none may re- 
tain. 
Or reassume, or hold, succeeding thee : 
Yet if thou wilt, as 't is the destiny 
Of trodden worms to writhe till they 

are dead. 
Put forth thy might, 

JupiUr Detested prodigy ! 

Even thus beneath the Titanian pris- 
ons 
I trample thee ! thou lingerest ? 

Mercy ! mercy ! 
No pity, no release, no respite ! Oh, 
That thou wouldst make mine enemy 

my judge. 
Even where he hangs, seared by my 

long revenge, 

On Caucasus ! he would not doom me 

thus. [not 

Gentle, and just, and dreadless, is he 

The monarch of the world ? What 

then art thou ? 
No refuge ! no appeal 1 

Sink with me then. 
We too will sink on the wide waves of 

ruin, 
Even as a vulture and a snake outspent 
Drop, twisted in inextricable fight. 
Into a shoreless sea. Let hell unlock 
Its mounded oceans of tempestuous 

fire, 
And whelm on them into the bottom- 
less void [me. 
This desolated world, and thee, and 
The conqueror and the conquered, and 

the wreck 
Of that for which they combated. 

Ai ! Ai ! 
The elements obey me not. I t.ink 
Dizzily down, ever, for ever, down. 
And, like a cloud, mine enemy above 
Darkens my fall with victory ! Ai, 
Ai ! 

SCENE II.— The Mouth of .\ c;reat 
River in the Isl.vnu Atlantis. 
Ocean is discovered reclining near 
Oie Sliore; Apollo stands beside 
h i tn . 

Oce.d n. He fell, thou sayest, beneath 
Lis conquerors frown ? 



Apollo. Aye, when the strife was 
ended which made dim 
The orb I rule, and shook the solid 

stars. 
The terrors of his c^ye illumined heaven 
With sanguine light, through the 

thick ragged skirts 
Of the victorious darkness, as he 

fell : 
Like the last glare of day's red agony. 
Which, from a rent among the fiery 

clouds, 
Burns far along the tempest-wrinkled 
deep. 
Ocean. He sunk to the abyss? To 

the dark void ? 
Ajyollo. An eagle so caught in some 
bursting cloud 
On Caucasus, his thuuder-baffied wings 
Entangled in the whirlwind, and his 

eyes 
Which gazed on the undazzling sun, 

now blinded 
By the white lightning, while the pon- 
derous hail 
Beats on his struggling form, which 

sinks at length 
Prone, and the aerial ice clings over it. 
Ocean. Henceforth the fields of 
Heaven-reflecting sea 
Which are my realm, will heave, un- 
stained with blood, 
Beneath the uplifting winds, like 

plains of corn 
Swayed by the summer air ; my 

streams will flow 
Round many-peopled continents, and 

round 
Fortunate isles ; and from their glassy 

thi'ones 
Blue Proteus and his humid nymphs 

shall mark 
The shadow of fair ships, as mortals see 
The floating bark of the light-laden 

moon 
With that white star, its sightless 

pilot's crest. 
Borne down the rapid sunset's ebbing 

sea ; 
Tracking their path no more by blood 

and groans. 
And desolation, and the mingled voice 
Of slavery and command ; but by the 

light 
Of wave-reflected flowers, and floating 

odors. 
And music soft, and mild, free, gentle 

voices, 
And sweetest music, such as spirits 
love. 
Apollo. And I shall gaze not on the 
deeds which make 



196 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



My mind obscure with sorrow, as 

eclipse 
Darkens the sphere I guide. But list, 

I hear 
The small, clear, silver lute of the 

young Spirit 
That sits i' the morning star. 

Ocean. Thou must away ; 

Thy steeds will pause at even, till when 

farewell : 
The loud deep calls me home even now 

to feed it 
With azure calm out of the emerald 

urns 
Which stand for ever full beside my 

throne. 
Behold the Nereids under the green 

sea, 
Their wavering limbs borne on the 

windlike stream, 
Their white arms lifted o'er their 

streaming hair 
With garlands pied and starry sea- 
flower crowns. 
Hastening to grace their mighty 

sister's joy. 

[A t<orinf1 of i varies is heard. 
It is the unpastured sea hungering for 

calm. 
Peace, monster ; I come now. Fare- 
well. 
ApoUo. Farewell. 

SCENE III.— Caucasus. Promethe- 
us, Hercules, Ione, the Earth, 
Spirits, Asia, and Panthea, borne 
in the Car with the Spirit of the 
Hour. 

Hercules unbinds Prometheus, 
loho descends. 
Hercules. Most glorious among 
spirits, thus doth strength 

To wisdom, courage, and long-suffer- 
ing love. 

And thee, who art the form they ani- 
mate, 

Minister like a slave. 
Prometheus. Thy gentle words 

Are sweeter even than freedom long 
desired 

And long delayed. 

Asia, thou light of life. 

Shadow of beauty imbeheld : and ye. 

Fair sister nymphs, who made long 
years of pain 

Sweet to remember, thro' your love 
and care : 

Henceforth we will not part. There 
is a cave. 

All overgrown with trailing odorous 
plants, 



Which curtain out the day with leaves 

and flowers, 
And paved with veined emerald ; and 

a fountain 
Leaps into the midst with an awaken- 
ing sound. 
From its curved roof the mountain's 

frozen tears 
Like snow, or silver, or long diamond 

spires. 
Hang downward, raining forth a doubt- 
ful light : 
And there is heard the ever-moving . 

air. 
Whispering without from tree to tree, 

and birds. 
And bees ; and all around are mossj' 

seats. 
And the rough walls are clothed with 

long soft grass ; 
A simple dwelling, which shall be our 

own ; 
Where we will sit and talk of time and «.( 

change, j 

As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves i 

unchanged. 
What can hide man from mutability ? 
And if ye sigh, then I will smile ; and 

thou, 
lone, Shalt chant fragments of sea- 
music, 
Until I weep, when ye shall smile away 
The tears she brought, which yet were 

sweet to shed. 
We will entangle buds and flowers and 

beams 
Which twinkle on the fountain's brim, 

and make 
Strange combinations out of common 

things. 
Like human babes in their brief inno- ' 

cence ; 
And we will search, with looks and 

words of love. 
For hidden thoughts, each lovelier 

than the last, | 

Our unexhausted spirits; and like lutes 
Toucht by the skill of the enamoured 

wind, 
Weave harmonies divine, yet ever 

new, 
From difference sweet where discord 

cannot be ; 
And hither come, sped on the charmed 

winds, 
Which meet from all the points of J 

heaven, as bees ^ 

From every flower aerial Enna feeds, 
At their known island-homes in 

Himera, 
The echoes of the human world, which 

tell 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



197 



Of the low voice of love, almost un- 
heard, 
And dove-eyed pity's murmured pain, 

and music, 
Itself the echo of the heart, and all 
That tempers or improves man's life, 

now free ; 
And lovely apparitions, dim at first. 
Then radiant, as the mind, arising 

bright 
From the embrace of beauty, whence 

the forms 
Of which these are the phantoms, cast 

on them 
The gathered rays which are reality, 
Shall visit us, the progeny immortal 
Of Painting, Sculpture, and rapt Poesy, 
And arts, tho' unimagined, yet to 

be. 
The wandering voices and the shadows 

these 
Of all that man becomes, the mediators 
Of that best worship, love, by him and 

us 
Given and returned ; swift shapes and 

sounds, which grow 
More fair and soft as man grows wise 

and kind, 
And, veil by veil, evil and error fall : 
Such virtue has the cave and place 

around. 
\Turniiuj to tlw Spirit of the Hour. 
For thee, fair Spirit, one toil remains. 

lone, 
Give her that curved shell, which Pro- 
teus old 
Made Asia's nuptial boon, breathing 

within it 
A voice to be accomplisht, and which 

thou 
Didst hide in grass under the hollow 

rock 
lone. Thou most desired Hour, more 

loved and lovely 
Than all thy sisters, this is the mystic 

shell ; 
See the pale azure fading into silver 
Lining it with a soft yet glowing light : 
Looks it not like lulled music sleeping 

there ? 
Spirit. It seems in truth the fairest 

shell of Ocean : 
Its sounds must be at once both sweet 

and strange. 
Prometheus. Go, borne over the 

cities of mankind 
On whirlwind-footod coursers : once 

again 
Outspeed the sun around the orbed 

world ; 
vVnd as thy chariot cleaves the kindling 

air, 



Thou breathe into the many-folded 

shell. 
Loosening its mighty music ; it shall be 
As thunder mingled with clear echoes : 

then 
Return ; and thou shalt dwell beside 

our cave. 
And thou, O, Mother Earth !— 

The Earth. I hear, I feel ; 

Thy lips are on me, and thy touch runs 

down 
Even to the adamantine central gloom 
Along these marble nerves ; 't is life, 

't is joy. 
And thro' my withered, old, and icy 

frame 
The warmth of an immortal youth 

shoots down 
Circling. Henceforth the many chil- 
dren fair 
Folded in my sustaining arms ; all 

plants. 
And creeping forms, and insects rain- 
bow-winged, 
And birds, and beasts, and fish, and 

human shapes. 
Which drew disease and pain from my 

wan bosom. 
Draining the poison of despair, shall 

take 
And interchange sweet nutriment ; 

to me 
Shall they become like sister-antelopes 
By one fair dam, snow-white, and swift 

as wind, 
Nurst among lilies near a brimming 

stream. 
The dew-mists of my sunless sleep shall 

float 
Under the stars like balm : night-folded 

flowers 
Shall suck unwithering hues in their 

repose : 
And men and beasts in happy dreams 

shall gather 
Strength for the coming day, and all 

its joy : 
And death shall be the last embi'ace 

of her 
Who takes the life she gave, even as a 

mother 
Folding her child, says, " Leave me 

not again.'' 
Asia. O mother ! wherefore speak 

the name of death ? 
Cease they to love, and move, and 

breathe, and speak. 
Who die ? 
The Earth. It would avail not to 

reply : 
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is 

known 



198 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



But to the uncommuuicating dead. 

Death is the veil which those who live 
call life : 

They sleep, and it is lifted ; and mean- 
while 

In mild variety the seasons mild 

With rainbow-skirted showers, and 
odorous winds, 

And long blue meteors cleansing the 
dull night, 

And the life-kindling shafts of the 
keen sun's 

All-piercing bow, and the dew-mingled 
rain 

Of the calm moonbeams, a soft influ- 
ence mild, 

Shall clothe the forests and the fields, 
ay, even 

The crag-built deserts of the barren 
deep. 

With ever-living leaves, and fruits, 
and flowers. 

And thou ! There is a cavern where 
my spirit 

Was panted forth in anguish whilst 
thy pain 

Made my heart mad, and those who did 
inhale it 

Became mad too, and built a temple 
there, 

And spoke, and were oracular, and 
lured 

The erring nations round to mutual 
war. 

And faithless faith, such as Jove kept 
with thee ; 

Which breath now rises, as amongst 
tali weeds 

A violet's exhaltation, and it fills 

With a serener light and crimson air 

Intense, yet soft, the rocks and woods 
around ; 

It feeds the quick growth of the ser- 
pent vine, 

And the dark linked ivy tangling wild. 

And budding, blown, or odor-faded 
blooms 

Which star the winds with points of 
colored light. 

As they rain thro' them, and bright 
golden globes 

Of fruit, suspended in their own green 
heaven. 

And thro' their veined leaves and am- 
ber stems 

The flowers whose purple and trans- 
lucid bowls 

Stand ever mantling with aerial dew. 

The drink of spirits : and it circles 
round, 

Like the soft waving wings of noonday 
dreams. 



Inspiring calm and happy thoughts, 
like mine, 

Now thou art thus restored. This cave 
is thine. 

Arise ! Appear ! 

\A Spirit rises in the likeness 
of a ^vin^Jcd child. 
This is my torch-bearer ; 

Who let his lamp out in old time with 
gazing 

On eyes from which he kindled it anew 

With love, which is as fire, sweet 
daughter mine. 

For such is that within thine own. 
Run, wayward. 

And guide this company beyond the 
peak 

Of Bacchic Nysa, Maenad-haunted 
mountain, 

And beyond Indus and its tribute 
rivers, 

Trampling the torrent streams and 
glassy lakes 

With feet umvet, unwearied, undelay- 
ing. 

And up the green ravine, across the 
vale, 

Beside the windless and crystalline 
pool. 

Wherever lies, on unerasing waves. 

The image of a temple, built above. 

Distinct with column, arch, and archi- 
trave. 

And palm-like capital, and over- 
wrought. 

And populous most with living imag- 
ery, 

Praxitelean shapes, whose marble 
smiles 

Fill the husht air with everlasting love. 

It is deserted now, but once it bore 

Thy name, Prometheus ; there the 
emulous youths 

Bore to thy honor thro' the divine 
gloom 

The lamp which was thine emblem ; 
even as those 

Who bear the uutransmitted torch of 
hope 

Into the grave, across the night of life, 

As thou hast borne it most trium- 
phantly 

To this far goal of Time. Depart, fare- 
well. 

Beside that temple is the destined cave. 

SCENE IV.— A Forest. In the 

BACKGROUND A CAVE. PROME- 

THEUS, Asia, Panthea, Ione, and 
the Spirit of the Earth. 
lone. Sister, it is not earthly : how 
it glides 



PROMETHEUS TJNBOTJND. 



199 



Under the leaves ! how on its head 

there burns 
A light, like a green star, whose em- 
erald beams 
Are twined with its fair hair ! how, as 

it moves, 
The splendor drops in flakes upon the 

grass ! 
Knowest thou it ? 

Panthea. It is the delicate spirit 
Tiiat guides the earth thro' heaven. 

From afar 
The populous constellations call that 

light 
The loveliest of the planets ; and some- 
times 
It floats along the spray of the salt 

sea. 
Or makes its chariot of a foggy cloud, 
Or walks thro' fields or cities while 

men sleep. 
Or o'er the mountain tops, or down the 

rivers. 
Or thro' the green waste wilderness, as 

now, 
Wondering at all it sees. Before Jove 

reigned 
It loved our sister Asia, and it came 
Each leisure hour to drink the liquid 

light 
Out of her eyes, for which it said it 

thirsted 
As one bit by a dipsas, and with her 
It made its childish confidence, and 

told her 
All it had known or seen, for it saw 

much, 
Yet idly reasoned what it saw ; and 

called her — 
For whence it sprung it knew not, nor 

dol— 
Mother, dear mother. 
Tlic Spirit of the Earth (r^l7ln^ng to 

Asia). Mother, dearest mother ; 
May I then talk with thee as I was 

wont? 
May I then hide my eyes in thy soft 

arms. 
After thy looks have made them tired 

of joy? 
May I then play beside thee the long 

noons. 
When woi'k is none in the bright silent 

air ? 
Asia. I love thee, gentlest being, 

and henceforth 
Can cherish thee unenvied : speak, I 

pray : 
Thy simple talk once solaced, now de- 
lights. 
Spirit of the Earth. Mother, I am 

grown wiser, tho' a child 



Cannot be wise like thee, within this 

day; 
And happier too ; happier and wiser 

both. 
Thou knowest that toads, and snakes, 

and loathly worms. 
And venomous and malicious beasts, 

and boughs 
That bore ill berries in the woods, were 

ever 
An hindi-ance to my walks o'er the 

green world : 
And that, among the haunts of human 

kind. 
Hard-featured men, or with proud, 

angry looks. 
Or cold, staid gait, or false and hollow 

smiles. 
Or the dull sneer of self-loved igno- 
rance, 
Or other such foul masks, with which 

ill thoughts 
Hide that fair being v/hom we spirits 

call man ; 
And women too, ugliest of all things 

evil, 
(Tho' fair, even in a world where thou 

art fair. 
When good and kind, free and sincere 

like thee), 
When false or frowning made me sick 

at heart 
To pass them, tho' they slept, and I 

unseen. 
Well, my path lately lay thro' a great 

city 
Into the woody hills surrounding it : 
A sentinel was sleeping at the gate : 
When there was heard a sound, so loud 

it shook 
The towers amid the moonlight, yet 

more sweet 
Than any voice but thine, sweetest of 

all ; 
A long, long sound, as it would never 

end : 
And all the inhabitants leapt .suddenly 
Out of their rest, and gathered in the 

streets. 
Looking in wonder up to Heaven, while 

yet 
The music pealed along. I hid myself 
Within a fountain in the public square. 
Where I lay like the reflex of the 

moon 
Seen in a wave under green leaves ; 

and soon 
Those ugly human shapes and visages 
Of which I spoke as having wrought 

me pain. 
Past floating thro' the air, and fading 

still 



200 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Into the winds that scattered them ; f 

and those 
From whom they past seemed mild 

and lovely forms 
After some foul disguise had fallen, 

and all 
Were somewhat changed, and after 

brief surprise 
And greetings of delighted wonder, all 
Went to their sleep again : and when 

the dawn 
Came, woukVst thou think that toads, 

and snakes, and efts. 
Could e'er be beautiful ? yet so they 

were, 
And that with little change of shape 

or hue : 
All things had put their evil nature off : 
I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lake 
Upon a drooping bough with night- 
shade twined, 
I saw two azure halcyons clinging 

downward 
And thinning one bright bunch of 

amber berries. 
With quick long beaks, and in the 

deep there lay 
Those lovely forms imaged as in a 

sky; 
So, with my thoughts full of these 

happy changes, 
We meet again, the happiest change 

of all. 
Asia. And never will we part, till 

thy chaste sister 
Who guides the frozen and inconstant 

moon 
Will look on thy more warm and equal 

light 
Till her heart thaw like flakes of April 

snow 
And love thee. 
Spirit of the Earth. What ; as 

Asia loves Prometheus ? 
Asia. Peace, wanton, thou art yet 

not old enough. 
Think ye by gazing on each other's 

eyes 
To multiply your lovely selves, and fill 
With sphei'ed fires the interlunar air ? 
Spirit of the Earth. Nay, mother, 

while my sister trims her lamp 
'T is hard I should go darkling. 
Asia. Ijisten ; look ! 

The Spirit of the Hour enters. 
Prometheus. We feel what thou 

hast heard and seen : yet speak. 
Spirit of the Hour. Soon as the 

sound had ceast whose thunder 

filled 
The abysses of the sky and the wide 

earth, 



There was a change : the impalpable 

thin air 
And the all-circling sunlight were 

transfoi'med. 
As if the sense of love dissolved in them 
Had folded itself round the sphered 

world. 
My vision then grew clear, and I could 

see 
Into the mysteries of the universe : 
Dizzy as with delight I floated down. 
Winnowing the lightsome air with lan- 
guid plumes. 
My coursers sought their birthplace in 

the sun, 
Where they henceforth will live ex- 
empt from toil 
Pasturing flowers of vegetable fire ; 
And where my moonlike car will stand 

within 
A temple, gazed upon by Phidian forms 
Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and 

me. 
And you fair nymphs looking the love 

we feel, — 
In memory of the tidings it has 

borne,— 
Beneath a dome fretted with graven 

flowers. 
Poised on twelve columns of resplen- 
dent stone. 
And opened to the bright and liquid 

sky. 
Yoked to it by an amphisbEenic snake 
The likeness of those winged steeds 

will mock 
The flight from which thej"- find repose. 

Alas, 
Whither has wandered now my partial 

tongue 
When all remains untold which ye 

would hear ? 
As I have said I floated to the earth : 
It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss 
To move, to breathe, to be ; I wander- 
ing went 
Among the haunts and dwellings of 

mankind. 
And first was disappointed not to see 
Such mighty change as I had felt 

within 
Exprest in outward things ; but soon 

I lookt. 
And behold, thrones were kingless, 

and men walkt, 
One with the other even as spirits do, 
None fawned, none trampled ; hate, 

disdain, or fear, 
Self-love or self-contempt, on human 

brows. 
No more inscribed, as o'er the gate 

of hell, 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



201 



' All hope abandon ye who enter here ; " 

!irone frowned, none trembled, none 
with eager fear 

>azed on another's ej^e of cold com- 
mand. 

Until the subject of the tyrant's will 

Became, worse fate, the abject of his 
own, 

Which spurred him, like' an outspent 
horse, to death. 

N'one ^wroug:ht his lips in ti'uth-entan- 
gling lines 

Which smiled the lie his tongue dis- 
dained to speak ; 

None, with firm sneer, trod out in his 
own heart 

The sparks of love and hope till there 
remained 

Those bitter ashes, a soul self-con- 
sumed, 

And the wretch crept a vampire among 
men, 

Infecting all with his own hideous ill ; 

None talkt that common, false, cold, 
hollow talk 

Which makes the heart deny the yes 
it breathes, 

Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy 

With such a self-mistrust as has no 
name. 

And women, too, frank, beautiful, and 
kind 

As the free heaven which rains fresh 
light and dew 

On the wide earth, past ; gentle radi- 
ant forms, 

From custom's evil taint exempt and 
pure ; 

Speaking the wisdom once they could 
not think. 

Looking emotions once they feared to 
feel. 

And changed to all which once they 
dared not be, 

Yet being now, made earth like hea- 
ven ; nor pride. 

Nor jealousy, nor envy, nor ill shame, 

The bitterest of those drops of treas- 
ured gall, 

Spoiled the sweet taste of the ne- 
penthe, love. 

Thrones, altars, judgment seats, and 

prisons ; wherein, 
And beside which, by wretched men 
t were borne 

» Sceptres, tiaras, swords, and chains, 

and tomes 
( Of reasoned wrong, glozed on by igno- 
rance. 
Were like those monstrous and ^.bar- 
baric shapes, 



The ghosts of a no more remembered 
fame. 

Which, from their unworn obelisks, 
look forth 

In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs 

Of those who were their conquerors : 
mouldering round 

Those imaged to the pride of kings and 
priests, 

A dark yet mighty faith, a power as 
wide 

As is the world it wasted, and are now 

But an astonishment ; even so the 
tools 

And emblems of its last captivity, 

Amid the dwellings of the peopled 
earth, 

Stand, not o'erthrown, but unregarded 
now. 

And those foul shapes, abhorred by 
God and man, 

Which, under many a name and many 
a form 

Strange, savage, ghastly, dark and ex- 
ecrable, 

Wei'e Jupiter, the tyrant of the world; 

And which the nations, panic-stricken, 
served 

With blood, and hearts broken by long 
hope, and love 

Dragged to his altars soiled and gar- 
landless, 

And slain among men's unreclaiming 
tears. 

Flattering the thing they feared, which 
fear was hate, 

Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their 
abandoned shrines : 

The painted veil, by those who were, 
called life. 

Which mimickt, as with colors idly 
spread. 

All men believed and hoped, is torn 
aside ; 

The loathsome mask has fallen, the 
man remains 

Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but 
man 

Equal, unclast, tribeless, and nation- 
less, 

Exempt from awe, worship, degree, 
the king 

Over himself ; just, gentle, wise : but 
man 

Passionless ; no, yet free from guilt or 
pain, 

Which were, for his will made or suf- 
fered them, 

Nor yet exempt, tho' ruling them like 
slaves. 

From chance, and death, and muta- 
bility, 



202 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



The clogs of that which else might 

oversoar 
The loftiest star of unascended heaven, 
Pmnacled dim in the intense inane. 

END OF THE THIRD ACT. 



ACT IV. 

Scene.— A Part of the Forest near 
THE Cave of Prometheus. Pan- 
THEA and- Ione arc sleeping ; they 
(iwakcn graduaUy during thejirst 
Sony. 

Voice of unseen Spirits. 

The pale stars are gone ! 
For the sun, their swift shepherd, 
To their folds them compelling. 
In the depths of the dawn. 
Hastes, in meteor-eciipsing array, and 
they flee 
Beyond his blue dwelling. 
As fawns flee the leopard. 
But where are ye ? 

A Train of dark Forms and Shadows 
passes by co7ifusedly singing. 

Here, oh, here : 
We bear the bier 
Of the Father of many a cancelled 
year ! 
Spectres we 
Of the dead Hours be ; 
We bear Time to his tomb in eternity. 

Strew, oh, strew 

Hair, not yew ! 
Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew! 

Be the faded flowers 

Of Death's bare bowers 
Spread on the corpse of the King of 
Hours ! 

Haste, oh, haste ! 
As shades are chased. 
Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue 
waste. 
We melt away. 
Like dissolving spray. 
From the children of a diviner daj', 
With the lullaby 
Of winds that die 
On the bosom of their own harmony ! 

lone. 
What dark forms were they ? 

Panthea. 
The past Hours weak and gray, 
With the spoil which their toil 

Raked together 
From the conquest but One could foil' 



lone. 
Have they past ? 
Panthea. 

They have past 
They outspeeded the blast, 
While 't is said, they are fled : 
lone. 
Whither, oh, whither ? 
Panthea. 
To the dark, to the past, to the dead. 
Voice of unseen Spirits. 
Bright clouds float in heaven. 
Dew-stars gleam on earth, 
Waves assemble on ocean. 
They are gathered and driven 
By the storm of delight, by the panic 
of glee ! 
They shake with emotion. 
They dance in their mirth. 
But where are ye ? 

The pine boughs are singing 
Old songs with new gladness, 
The billows and fountains 
Fresh music are flinging, 
Like the notes of a spirit from land audi 
from sea ; 
The storms mock the mountains 
With the thunder of gladness. 
But where are ye ? 

lone. What charioteers are these ? 
Panthea. Where are thein 

chariots ? 

Semichorus of Honrs. 
The voice of the Spirits of Air and of 
Earth 
Have drawn back the figured curtain 
of sleep 
Which covered our being and darkened 
our birth 
In the deep. 

A Voice. 
In the deep ? 
Semichorus II. 

Oh, below the deep.j 
Sem,ichorus I. 
An hundred ages we had been kept 

Cradled in visions of hate and care. 
And each one who waked as his brother 
slept, 
Found the truth— 

Semichorus II. 
Worse than his visions were 1 
Semichorus I. 
We have heard the lute of Hope ia^ 
sleep ; 

We have known the voice of Love in, 
dreams, 
We have felt the wand of Power, and 
leap— 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



203 



Sernlchorus II. 
ks the billows leap in the morning 
beams ! 

Chor'iis. 

Weave the dance on the floor of the 

breeze, 

Pierce with song heaven's silent light, 

Enchant the day that too swiftly flees, 

To check its flight ere the cave of 

night. 

Dnce the hungry Hours were hounds 
Which chased the day like a bleeding 
deer, 
A.nd it limpt and stumbled with many 
woiinds 
Through the nightly dells of the des- 
art year. 

But now, oh weave the mystic measure 
Of music, and dance, and shapes of 
light. 
Let the Hours, and the spirits of might 
and pleasure, 
Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite. 
A Voice. 

Unite ! 
Panthca. See, where the Spirits of 
the human mind 
Wrapt in sweet sounds, as in bright 
veils, approach. 

Chorus of Spirits. 

We join the throng 

Of the dance and the song, 
By the whirlwind of gladness borne 
along ; 

As the flying-fish leap 

From the Indian deep. 
And mix with the sea-birds, half asleep. 

Chorus of Hours. 

Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet. 
For sandals of lightning are on your 

feet, 
And your wings are soft and swift as 

thought, 
And your eyes are as love which is 

veiled not ? 

Chorus of Spirits. 

We come from the mind 

Of human kind 
Which was late so dusk, and obscene, 
and blind. 

Now 't is an ocean 

Of clear emotion, 
A heaven of serene and mighty motion ; 

From that deep abyss 
Of wonder and bliss, 



Whose caverns are crystal palaces ; 

From those skiey towers 

W^here Thought's crowned powers 
Sit watching your dance, ye happy 
Hours I 

From the dim recesses 
Of woven caresses. 
Where lovers catch ye by your loose 
tresses ; 
From the azure isles. 
Where sweet Wisdom smiles. 
Delaying your ships with her siren 
wiles. 

From the temples high 

Of Man's ear and eye, 
Rooft over Sculpture and Poesy ; 

From the murmurings 

Of the unsealed springs 
Where Science bedews his daedal wing. 

Years after years. 
Through blood, and tears, 
And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, 
and fears ; 
We waded and flew. 
And the isles were few 
Where the bud-blighted flowers of hap- 
piness grew. 

Our feet now, every palm. 

Are sandalled with calm. 
And the dew of our wings is a rain of 
balm ; 

And, beyond our eyes, 

The human love lies 
Which makes all its gazes on Paradise. 

Chorus of Spirits and Hours. 

Then weave the web of the mystic 

measure ; 
From the depths of the sky and the 

ends of the earth. 
Come, swift Spirits of might and of 

pleasure. 
Fill the dance and the music of mirth. 
As the waves of a thousand streams 

rush by 
To an ocean of splendor and harmony I 

Chorus of Spirits. 

Our spoil is won. 

Our task is done. 
We are free to dive, or soar, or run ; 

Beyond and around. 

Or within the bound 
Which clips the world with darkness 
round. 



204 



PltOMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Vv'e '11 pass the eyes 
Of the starry skies 
Into the hoar deep to colonize : 
Death, Chaos, and Night, 
From the sound of our flight, 
Shall flee, like mist from a tempest's 
might. 

And Earth, Air, and Light, 
And the Spirit of Might, 
Which drives round the stars in their 
fierv flight ; 
And Love, Thought, and Breath, 
The powers that quell Death, 
Wherever we soar shall assemble be- 
neath. 

And our singing shall build 
In the void's loose field 
A world for the Spirit of Wisdom to 
wield ; 
We will take our plan 
From the new world of man, 
And our work shall be called the Pro- 
methean. 

Chorus of Hours. 

Break the dance, and scatter the song ; 
Let some depart, and some remain. 

Scrni chorus I. 
We, beyond Heaven, are driven along : 

Semichorus II. 
Us the enchantments of earth retain : 

Scmichorxis I. 

Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and 

free 
With the' Spirits which build a new 

earth and sea, 
A.nd a heaven where yet heaven could 

never be. 

Semichorus II. 

Solemn, and slow, and serene, and 

bright, 
Leading the Day and outspeeding the 

Night, 
With the powers of a world of perfect 

light. 

Semichorus I. 

We whirl, singing loud, round the 

gathering sphere, 
Till the trees, and the beasts, and the 

clouds appear 
From its chaos made calm by love, not 

fear. 



Semichorus II. 

We encircle the ocean and mountain^ t 

of earth. 
And the happy forms of its death anci 

birth 
Change to the music of our sweet 

mirth. 



Chorus of Hours and Spirits. 



Break the dance, and scatter the song,: 

Let some depart, and some remain. 
Wherever we fly we lead along 
In leashes, like starbeams, soft yet 
strong. 
The clouds that are heavy with love's 

sweet rain. 
Pan thea. Ha ! they are gone ! 
lone. Yet feel you no delight; 

From the past sweetness ? 

Panthca. As the bare green hill 

When some soft cloud vanishes into 

rain. 
Laughs with a thousand drops of sunnyj 

water 
To the unpavilioned sky ! 

lone. Even whilst we speaW 

New notes arise. What is that awful 
sound ? 

Panthca. 'T is the deep music of 

the rolling world 

Kindling within the strings of the( 

waved air, 
uSlolian modulations. 

lone. Listen too, , 

How every paused is filled with under- 

notes. 
Clear, silver, icy, keen, awakening 

tones. 
Which pierce the sense, and live with- 
in the soul. 
As the sharp stars pierce winter's 

crystal air 
And gaze upon themselves within the 
sea. , 

Panthca. But see where thro' two 
openings in the forest 
Which hanging branches overcanopy, 
And where two runnels of a rivulet, 
Between the close moss violet-inwoven, 
Have made their path of melody, like 

Who part with sighs that they may 

meet in smiles. 
Turning their dear disunion to an isle i 
Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad 

thoughts ; 
Two visions of strange radiance float 

upon 
The ocean-like enchantment of strong ; 

sound, 



rilOMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



205 



Which flows inteiiser, keener, deeper 
yet 

Uiider the ground and thro' the wind- 
less air. 
lone. I see a chariot like that thin- 
nest boat 

In which the mother of the months is 
borne 

By ebbing night into her western 
cave, 

"When she upsprings from interlunar 
dreams, 

O'er which is curved an orblike canopy 

Of gentle darkness, and the hills and 
woods 

Distinctly seen through that dusk airy 
veil, 

Regard like shapes in an enchanter's 
glass ; 

Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and 
gold. 

Such as the genii of the thunderstorm 

Pile on the floor of the illumined sea 

When the sun rushes under it ; they 
roll 

And move and grow as with an inward 
wind ; 

Within it sits a winged infant, white 

Its countenance, like the whiteness of 
bright snow. 

Its plumes are as feathers of sunny 
frost. 

Its limbs gleam white, through the 
wind-flowing folds 

Of its white robe, woof of ethereal 
pearl. 

Its hair is white, the brightness of 
white light 

Scattered in strings ; yet its two eyes 
are heavens 

Of liquid darkness, which the Deity 

Within seems pouring, as a storm is 
poured 

Prom jagged clouds, out of their ar- 
rowy lashes, 

Tempering the cold and radiant air 
around, 

With Are that is not brightness ; in its 
hand 

It sways a quivering moonbeam, from 
whose point 

A guiding power directs the chariot's 
prow 

Over its wheeled clouds, which as they 
roll 

Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, 
wake sounds. 

Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew. 
Panthea. And from the other open- 
ing in the wood 

Rushes, with loud and whirlwind har- 
mony, 



A sphere, which is as many thousand 

spheres, 
Solid as crystal, yet through all its 

mass 
Flow, as through empty space, music 

and light : 
Ten thousand orbs involving and in- 
volved, 
Purple and azure, white and green, 

and golden, 
Sphere within sphere ; and every space 

between 
Peopled with unimaginable shapes. 
Such as ghosts dream dwell in the 

lampless deep. 
Yet each inter-transpicuous, and they 

whirl 
Over each other with a thousand 

motions, 
Upon a thousand sightless axles spin- 
ning. 
And with the force of self-destroying 

swiftness. 
Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on. 
Kindling with mingled sounds, a,nd 

many tones, 
Intelligible words and music wild. 
With mighty vv^hirl the multitudinous 

orb 
Grinds the bright brook into an azure 

mist 
Of elemental subtlety, like light ; 
And the wild odor of the forest 

flowers. 
The music of the living grass and air, 
The emerald light of leaf-entangled 

beams 
Round its intense yet self-conflicting 

speed. 
Seem kneaded Into one aerial mass 
Which drowns the sense. Within the 

orb itself. 
Pillowed upon its alabaster arms. 
Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet 

toil. 
On its own folded wings, and wavy 

hair, 
The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep. 
And you can see its little lips are mov- 
ing, 
Amid the changing light of their own 

smiles 
Like one who talks of what he loves in 

dream. 
lone. 'T is only mocking the orb's 

harmony. 
Panthea. And from a star upon its 

forehead, shoot, 
Like swords of azure Are, or golden 

spears 
With tyrant-quelling myrtle over- 
twined, 



206 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Embleminsr heaven and earth united 

now, 
Vast beams like spokes of some invisi- 
ble wheel 
AVhicli whirl as the orb whirls, swifter 

than thought, 
Filling: the abyss with sun-like light- 
nings. 
And perpendicular now, and now 

transverse, 
Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce 

and pass. 
Make bare the secrets of the earth's 

deep heart ; 
Infinite mine of adamant and gold. 
Valueless stones, and unimagined 

gems. 
And cavei'ns on crystalline columns 

poised 
"With vegetable silver overspread ; 
Wells of uniathomed fire, and water 

springs 
Whence the great sea, even as a child 

is fed, 
Whose vapors clothe earth's monarch 

mountain-tops 
With kinglj', ermine snow. The 

beams flash on 
And make appear the melancholy ruins 
Of cancelled cycles ; anchors, beaks 

of ships ; 
Planks turned to marble ; quivei's, 

helms, and spears. 
And gorgon-headed targes, and the 

wheels 
Of scythed chariots, and the em- 
blazonry 
Of trophies, standards, and armorial 

beasts, 
Round which death laught, sepulchred 

emblems 
Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin ! 
The wrecks beside of many a city vast. 
Whose population which the earth 

grew over 
Was mortal, but not human : see, they 

lie, 
Their monstrous works, and uncouth 

skeletons, 
Their statues, homes and fanes ; pro- 
digious shapes 
Huddled in gray annihilation, split. 
Jammed in the hard, black deep ; and 

over these, 
The anatomies of unknown winged 

things, 
And fishes which were isles of living 

scale, 
And serpents, bony chains, twisted 

iiround 
The iron crags, or within l"eaps of 

dust 



To which the tortuous strength of 

their last pangs 
Had crusht the iron crag ; and over 

these 
The jagged alligator, and the might 
Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which 

once 
Wei'e monarch beasts, and on the 

slimy shores. 
And weed-overgrown continents of 

earth. 
Increased and multiplied like summer 

worms 
On an abandoned corpse, till the blue 

globe 
Wrapt deluge round it like a cloke, and 

they 
Yelled, gaspt, and were abolisht ; or 

some God 
Whose throne was in a comet, past, 

and cried, 
Be not ! And like my words they 

were no more. 

The Earth. 

The joy, the triumph, the delight, 
the madness ! 

The boundless, overflowing, bursting 
gladness. 
The vapors exultation not to be con- 
fined ! 

Ha ! ha ! the animation of delight 

Which wraps me, like an atmosphere 
of light. 
And bears me as a cloiul is borne by 
its own wind. ( 

The Moon. 

Brother mine, calm wanderer, 
Happy globe of land and air. 
Some Spirit is darted like a beam from 
thee. 
Which penetrates my frozen frame, 
And passes with the warmth of 
flame. 
With love, and odor, and deep melody < 
Thi'o' me, thro' me ! 

The Earth. 

Ha ! ha ! the caverns of my hollow 
mountains, 

My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting 
fountains 
Laugh with a vast and inextinguish- 
able laughter. 

The oceans, and the deserts, and the i 
abysses. 

And the deep air's unmeasured wil- 
dernesses. 
Answer from all their clouds and bil- 
lows, echoing after. 



PllOMETHETTS UNBOUND. 



207 



They cry aloud as I do. Sceptred 
curse, 

Who all our green and azure universe 
'hreatenedst to multle round with 
black destruction, sending 

A solid cloud to rain hot thunder- 
stones, 

And splinter and knead down my 
children's bones, 
\11 I bring forth, to one void mass bat- 
tering and bleeding. 

Until each crag-like toAver, and 

storied column. 
Palace, and obelisk, and temple 
solemn, . 

My imperial mountains crowned with 
cloud, and snow, and fire ; 
My sea-like forests, every blade and 

and blossom 
Which finds a grave or cradle in my 
bosom, , ^ • 4. 

Were stampt by thy strong hate into 
a lifeless mire. 

How art thou sunk, withdrawn, cov- 
ered, drunk up 
By thirsty nothing, as the brackish 

Drained by a desert-troop, a little drop 
for all ; 
And from beneath, around, withm, 

above. 
Filling thy void annihilation, love 
Burst in like light on caves cloven by 
the thunder-ball. 

The Moon. 
The snow upon my lifeless moun- 
tains . 
Is loosened into living fountains, 
My solid oceans flov,% and sing, and 
shine : 
A spirit from my heart bursts forth. 
It clothes v.dth unexpected birth 
My cold bare bosom : Oh ! it must be 
thine 

On mine, on mine ! 



The Earth. 

It interpenetrates my granite mass, 
Through tangled roots and trodden 

clay doth pass, 
Into the utmost leaves and delicatest 

flowers ; 
Upon the winds, among the clouds 

't is spread. 
It wakes a life in the forgotten dead. 
They breathe a spirit up from their 

obscures bowers. 

And like a storm bursting its cloudy 

prison 
With thunder, and with whirlwind, 

has arisen 
Out of the lampless caves of unimag- 

ined being : 
With earthquake shock and swiftness 

making shiver 
Thought's stagnant chaos, unre- 

moved for ever. 
Till hate, and fear, and pain, light-van- 

quisht shadows, fleeing. 

Leave Man, who was a many-sided 

mirror. 
Which could distort to many a shape 
of error. 
This true fair world of things, a sea 
reflecting love ; 
Which over all his kind as the sun s 
heaven 
Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, 
and even 
Darting from starry depths radiance 
and life, doth move. 

Leave Man, even as a leprous child 

is left. 
Who follows a sick beast to some 
warm cleft 
Of rocks, through which the might of 
healing springs is poured ; 
Then when it wanders home with 

rosy smile. 
Unconscious, and its mother fears 
awliile 
It is a spirit, then, weeps on her child 
restored. 



Gazing on thee I feel, I know 
Green stalks burst forth, and bright 
flowers grow, 
And living shapes uyon my bosom 
move : 
Music is in the sea and air. 
Winged clouds soar here and there. 
Dark with the rain new buds are 
dreaming of : 

'T is love, all love ! 



Man, oh, not men ! a chain of linked 

thought, ,..,-, * 

Of love and might to be divided not, 
Compelling the elements with adaman- 

"fiTip stress * 
As the sun rules, even with a tyrant's 

gaze, 
The unquiet republic of the maze 
Of planets, struggling fierce towards 

heaven's free wilderness. 



208 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Men, one harmonious soul of many a 
soul, 

Whose nature is its own divine con- 
trol, 
Where all things flow to all, as rivers 
to the sea ; 

Familiar acts are beautiful through 
love ; 

Labor, and pain, and grief, in life's 
green grove 
Sport like tame beasts ; none knew 
how gentle they could be ! 

His will, with all mean passions, bad 

delights, 
And selfish cares, its trembling 

satellites, 
A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to 

obey, 
Is as a tempest-winged ship, whose 

helm 
Love rules, through waves which 

dare not overwhelm, 
Forcing life's wildest shores to own its 

sovereign sway. 

All things confess his strength. 

Through the cold mass 
Of marble and of color his dreams 

pass ; 
Bright threads Avhence mothers weave 

the robes their children wear ; 
Language is a perpetual orphic song. 
Which rules with dsedal harmony a 

throng 
Of thoughts and forms, which else 

senseless and shapeless were. 

The lightning is his slave ; heaven's 
utmost deep 

Gives up her stars, and like a flock 
of sheep 
They pass before his eye, are num- 
bere:l, and roll on ! 

The tempest is his steed, he strides 
the air ; 

And the abyss shouts from her depth 
laid bare. 
Heaven, hast thou secrets ? Man un- 
veils me ; I have none. 

The Moon. 

The sliadow of white death has past 
From my path in heaven at last, 
A clinging shroud of solid frost and 

sleep ; 
And through my newly-woven 

bowers, 
AVander happy paramours. 



Less mighty, but as mild as those whO' 
keep 
Thy vales more deep. 

The Earth. 

As the dissolving warmth of dawn 

may fold 
A half unfrozen dew-globe, green, 

and gold. 
And crystalline, till it becomes ai 

winged mist, 
And wanders up the vault of the 

blue day. 
Outlives the noon, and on the sun's - 

last ray 
Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of Are and 1 

amethyst. 

The Moon. 

Thou art folded, thou art lying 
In the light whicli is undying 
Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile 
divine ; 
All suns and constellations shower 
On thee a lights a life, s power 
Which doth array thy sphere ; thou 
pourest thine 
On mine, on mine ! 

The Earth. 

I spin beneath my pyramid of night, 

Which points into the heavens 
dreaming delight. 
Murmuring victorious joj' in my en- 
chanted sleep ; 

As a youth lulled in love-dreams 
faintly sighing. 

Under the shadow of his beauty 
lying, 
Which round his rest a watch of light 
and warmth doth keep. 



The Moon. 

As in the soft and sweet eclipse. 
When soul meets soul on lovers' lips. 
High hearts are calm, and brightest 
eyes are dull ; 
So when thy shadow falls on me, 
Then am I mute and still, by thee 
Covered ; of thy love. Orb most beau- 
tiful. 
Full, oh, too full ! 

Thou art speeding round the sun 
Brightest world of many a one ; 
Green and azure sphere which shinest 
With a light which is divinest 
Among all the lamps of Heaven 



t ! 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



209 



To whom life and light is given ; 
I, thy crystal paramour 
Borne beside thee by a power 
Like the polar Paradise, 
Magnet-like of lovers' eyes ; 
I, a most enamoured maiden 
Whose weak brain is overladen 
With the pleasure of her love, 
Maniac-like around thee move 
Gazing, an insatiate bride, 
On thy form from every side 
Like a Maenad, round the cup 
Which Agave lifted up 
In the weird Cadmean forest. 
Brother, whereso'er thou soarest 
I must hurry, whirl and follow 
Thro' the heavens wide and hollow. 
Sheltered by the warm embrace 
Of thy soul from hungry space. 
Drinking from thy sense and sight 
Beauty, majesty, and might. 
As a lover or chameleon 
Grows like what it looks upon. 
As a violet's gentle eye 
Gazes on the azure sky 

Jntil its hue grows like what it be- 
holds, 
As a gray and watery mist 
Glows like solid amethyst 

athwart the western mountain it en- 
folds. 
When the sunset sleeps 
Upon its snow. 

The Earth. 

And the weak day weeps 
That it should be so. 
) gentle Moon, the voice of thy de- 
light 
<'alls on me like thy clear and tender 

light 

toothing the seaman, borne the sum- 
mer night. 
Thro' isles for ever calm ; 
) gentle Moon, thy crystal accents 

pierce 

Che caverns of my pride's deep uni- 
verse, 
harming the tiger joy, whose tram- 

plings fierce 
Made wounds which need thy balm. 
Panthca. I rise as from a bath of 
sparkling water, 
^ bath of azure light, among dark 

rocks, 

)ut of the stream of sound. 
lo7ie. Ah me ! sweet sister. 

The stream of sound has ebbed away 
from us, 
i.nd you pretend to rise out of its 
wave, 



Because your words fall like tlie clear, 

soft dew 
Shaken from a bathing wood nymph's 

limbs and hair. 
Panthca. Peace ! Peace : Almighty 
Power, which is as darkness, 
Is rising out of Earth, and from the 

sky 
Is showered like night, and from with- 
in the air 
Bursts, like eclipse which had been 

gathered up 
Into the pores of sunlight : the bright 

visions, 
Wherein the singing spirits rode and 

shone, 
Gleam like pale meteors thro' a watery 

night. 
lona. There is a sense of words upon 

mine ear. 
Panthca. An universal sound like 

words : Oh, list ! 

Deinogorgon. 

Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy 
soul. 
Sphere of divinest shapes and har- 
monies, 
Beautiful orb ! gathering as thou dost 
roll 
The love which paves thy path along 
the skies : 

The Earth. 

I hear : I am as a drop of dew that 
dies. 

Dcmogorgon. 
Thou, Moon, which gazest on the 
nightly Earth 
With wonder, as it gazes upon thee ; 
Whilst each to men, and beasts, and 
the swift birth 
Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, har- 
mony : 

TJie Moon. 
I hear : I am a leaf shaken by thee ! 

Dcmogorgon. 
Ye kings of suns and stars, Daemons 
and Gods, 
Ethereal Dominations, who po.ssess 
Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes 
IBeyond Heaven's constellated wilder- 
ness : 

A Voice from above. 
Our great Republic hears, we are 
blest, and bless. 



210 



THE CENCI. 



Demogor<jo}i. 
Ye happy dead, whom beams of bright- 
est verse 
Are clouds to hide, not colors to por- 
tray, 
Whether your nature is that universe 
Which once ye saw and sulfered— 

^4 Vo ice from bciica th . 

Or as they 
Whom we have left, we chanjje and 
pass away. 

Dctno(jor(jon. 
Ye elemental Genii, who have homes 
From man's high mind even to the 
central stone 
Of sullen lead ; from Heaven's star- 
fretted domes 
To the dull weed some sea-worm bat- 
tens on : 

A confused Voice. 
We hear ! thy words waken Oblivion. 
Dcmoijorgon. 
Spirits, whose homes are flesh ; ye 
beasts and birds, 
Ye worms, and fish ; ye living leaves 
and buds ; 
Lightning and wind ; and ye un- 
tamable herds, 
Meteors and mists, which throng air's 
solitudes : — 

A Voice. 
Thy voice to us is wind among still 
woods. 

Dcmogorgon. 
Man, who wert once a despot and a 

slave ; 
A dupe and a deceiver ; a decay ; 
A traveller from the cradle to the 
grave 
Thro' the dim night of this immortal 
day : 

All. 
Speak : thy strong words may never 
pass away. 

Dcmogorgon. 
This is the day, which down the void 

abysm 
At the Earth-born's spell yawns for 

Heaven's despotism. 
And Conquest is dragged captive 

through the deep : 
Love, from its awful throne of patient 

power 
In thd wise heart, from the last giddy 

hour 



Of dead endurance, from the slip 

pery, steep, ! 

And narrow verge of crag-like agony, 

springs 
And folds over the world its healing 

wings. 
Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Ea 

durance, 
These are the seals of that most firm; 

assurance 
Which bars the pit over Destruction's 

strength ; 
And if, with infirm hand. Eternity, 
Mother of many acts and hours, shouidi 

free 
The serpent that would clasp her 

with his length ; 
These are the spells by which to reas 

sume 
An empire o'er the disentangled doom 

To suffer woes which Hope thinks in-i| 

finite ; 
To forgive wrongs darker than death! 

or night ; 
To defy Power, which seems omnipo-i 

tent ; 
To love, and bear ; to hope till Hopej 

creates 
From its own wreck the thing it con^il 

templates ; 
Neither to change, nor falter, nor re- 
pent ; 
This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be 
Good, great and joyous, beautiful andj 

free ; 
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and* 

Victor}'. 



THE CENCI : 

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. 

DEDICATION. 

TO 

LEIGH HUNT, Esq. 

My de.\r Friend— I inscribe witl|! 
your name, from a distant country; i 
and after an absence whose month,si 
have seemed years, this the latest ol! 
my literary efforts. \ 

Those writings which I have hithert(^|j 
published, have been little else than vis-| 
ions which impersonate my own appre-j 
hensions of the beautiful land and the If 
just. I can also perceive in them the! 
literary defects incidental to youth' 



THE CENCI. 



211 



and impatience ; tliey are dreams of 
what ought to be, or may be. The 
drama which I now present to you is 
a sad reality. I lay aside the presump- 
tuous attitude of an instructor, and- 
am content to paint, with such colors, 
as my own lieart furnishes, that whicli 
has been. 

Had I known a person more highly 
endowed than yourself with all that it 
becomes a m.m to possess, I had soli- 
cited for this work the ornament of his 
name. One more gentle, honorable, 
innocent and brave ; one of more ex- 
alted toleration for all who do and 
think evil, and yet himself more free 
f ro n evil ; one who knows belter how 
to receive, and how to confer a benefit 
though he m lit ever confer far more 
than he can receive ; one of simpler, 
and, in the highest sense of the word, 
of purer life" and manners I never 
knew : and I had already been fortu- 
nate in friendships when your name 
was added to the list. 

In that patient and irreconcilable 
enmity with domestic and political 
tyi'anuy and imposture which the 
tenor of your life has illustrated and 
which, had I health and talents, should 
illustrate mine, let us, comforting each 
other in our task, live and die. 

All happiness attend you ! Your 
affectionate friend, Percy B. Shelley. 

Rome, May 29, 1819. 

PREFACE 

A Manuscript was communicated to 
me during my travels in Italy, which 
was copied from the archives of the 
Cenci Palace at Piome, and contains a 
detailed account of the horrors which 
ended in the extinction of one of the 
noblest and richest familes of that city 
during the Pontificate of Clement 
VIII , in the year 1.599. The story is, 
that an old man having spent his life 
in debauchery and wickedness, con- 
ceived at length an implacable hatred 
towards his children ; which showed 
itself towards one daughter under the 
form of an incestuous passion, aggra- 
vated by every circumstance of cruelty 
and violence. This daughter, after 
long and vain attempts to escape from 
what she considered a perpetual con- 
tamination both of body and mind, at 
length plotted with her mother-in-law 
and brother to murder their common 
tyrant. The young maiden, who was 
urged to tiiis tremendous deed by an 



impulse which overpowered its horror, 
was evidently a most gentle and ami- 
able being, a creature formed to adorn 
and be admired, and thus violently 
thwarted from her nature by the 
necessity of circumstance and opinion. 
The deed was quickly discovered, and, 
in spite of the most earnest prayers 
made to the Pope by the highest per- 
sons in Rome, the criminals were put to 
death. The old man had during his 
life repeatedly bought his pardon 
from the Pope for capital crimes of 
Vhe most enormous and unspeakable 
kind, at the price of a hundred thou- 
sand crowns ; the death therefore of his 
victims can scarcely be accounted for 
by the love of justice. The Pope, 
among other motives for severity, prob- 
ably felt that whoever killed the 
Count Cenci deprived his treasury of a 
certain and copious source of revenue. 
Such a story, if told so as to present to 
the reader all the feelings of those who 
once acted it, their hopes and fears, 
their confidences and misgivings, their 
various interests, passions, and opi- 
nions, acting upon and with each other, 
yet all conspiring to one tremendous 
end, would be as a light to make appa- 
rent some of the most dark and secret 
caverns of the human heart. 

On my arrival at Rome I found that 
the story of the Cenci was a subject 
not to be mentioned in Italian society 
without awakening a deep and breath 
less interest ; and that the feelings of 
the company never failed to incline to 
a romantic pity for the wrongs, and a 
passionate exculpation of the horrible 
deed to which they urged her, who has 
been mingled two centuries with the 
common dust. All ranks of people 
knew the outlines of this history, and 
participated in the overwhelming in- 
terest which it seems to have the magic 
of exciting in the human heart. I had 
a copy of Guido's picture of Beatrice 
which is preserved in the Colonna 
Palace, and my servant instantly recog- 
nized it as the portrait of La Cenci. 

This national and universal interest 
which the story produces and has pro- 
duced for two centuries and among all 
ranks of people in a great City, where 
the imagination is kept for ever active 
and' awake, first suggested to me the 
conception of its fitness for a dramatic 
purpose. In fact it is a tragedy which 
has already received, from its capacity 
of awakening and sustaining the sym- 
pathy of men, approbation and success. 



212 



THE CENCI. 



Nothing remained as I imagined, but to 
clothe it to the apprehensions of my 
countrymen in sueli language and 
action as would bring it home to their 
hearts. The deepest and the subliniest 
tragic compositions, King Lear and the 
two plays in which the tale of ffidipus 
is told, were stories which already ex- 
isted in tradition, as matters of popu- 
lar belief and interest, before Shake- 
speare and Sophocles made them 
familiar to the sympathy of all succeed- 
ing generations of mankind. 

This story of the Cenci is indeed emi- 
nently fearful and monstrous : any- 
thing like a dry exhibition of it on the 
stage would be insupportable. The per- 
son who would treat such a subject 
must increase the ideal, and dimin- 
ish the actual horror of the events, so 
that the pleasure which arises from the 
poetry which exists in these tempestu- 
ous sufferings and crimes may mitigate 
the pain of the contemplation of the 
moral deformity from which they 
spring. There must also be nothing 
attempted to make the exhibition sub- 
sei'vient to what is vulgarly termed a 
moral purpose. The highest moral 
purpose aimed at in the highest species 
of the drama, is the teaching the 
human heart, through its sympathies 
and antipathies, the knowledge of it- 
self ; in proportion to the possession of 
which knowledge, every human being 
is wise, just, sincere, tolerant and kind. 
If dogmas can do more, it is well : but 
a drama is no fit place for the enforce- 
ment of them. Undoubtedly, no per- 
son can be truly dishonored by the act 
of another ; and the fit return to make 
to the most enormous injuries is kind- 
ness and forbearance, and a resolution 
to convert the injurer from his dark 
passions by peace and love. Revenge, 
retaliation, atonement are pernicious 
mistakes. If Beatrice had thought in 
this manner she would have been 
wiser and better, but she would never 
have been a tragic character : the few 
whom such anexhibltion would have 
interested, could never have been suffi- 
ciently interested for a dramatic pur- 
pose, from the want of finding sympa- 
thy in their interest among the mass 
who surround them. It is in the rest- 
less and anatomizing casuistry with 
which men seek the justification of Be- 
atrice, yet feel that she has done what 
needs justification ; it is in the super- 
stitious horror with which they con- 
template alike her wrongs and their 



revenge, that the dramatic character 
of what she did and suffered, consists. 
I have endeavored as nearly as possi- 
ble to represent the characters as they 
probably were.and have sought to avoid 
the error of making them actuated by 
my own conceptions of right or wrong, 
false or true : thus under a thin veil 
converting names and actions of the 
sixteenth century into cold impersona- 
tions of my own mind. They are repre- 
sented as Catholics, and as Catholics 
deeply tinged with religion. To a Prot- 
estant apprehension there will appear 
something unnatural in the earnest 
and perpetual sentiment of the re- 
lations between God and men which 
pervade the tragedy of the Cenci. It 
will especially be startled at the com- 
bination of ah undoubting persuasion 
of the truth of the popular religion with 
a cool and determined perseverance in " 
enormous guilt. But religion in Italy 
is not, as in Protestant countries, a 
cloak to be worn on particular days ; 
or a passport which those who do not 
wish to be railed at carry with them to 
exhibit ; or a gloomy passion for pene- 
trating the impenetrable mysteries of 
our being, which terrifies its possessor 
at the darkness of the abyss to the 
brink of which it has conducted him. 
Religion coexists, as it were, in the 
mind of an Italian Catholic, with a faith 
in that of which all men have the most 
certain knowledge. It is interwoven 
with the whole fabric of life. It is 
adoration, faith, submission, penitence, 
blind admiration ; not a rule for moral 
conduct. It has no necessary connec- 
tion with any one virtue. The most 
atrocious villain may be rigidly devout, 
and without any shock to established 
faith, confess himself to be so. Re- 
ligion pervades intensely the whole 
frame of society, and is according to 
the temper of the mind which it in- 
habits, a passion, a persuasion, an ex- 
cuse, a refuge, never a check. Cenci 
himself built a chapel in the court of 
his Palace, and dedicated it to St. 
Thomas the Apostle, and established 
masses for the peace of his soul. Thus 
in the first scene of the fourth act 
Lucretia's design in exposing herself to 
the consequences of an expostulation 
with Cenci after having administered 
the opiate, was to induce him by a 
feigned tale to confess himself before 
death ; this being esteemed by Cath- 
olics as essential to salvation ; and she 
' only relinquishes her purpose when she 



THE CENCI. 



213 



perceives that her perseverance would 
3xpose Beatrice to nevr outrages. 

I have avoided with great care in 
writing this play the introduction of 
what is commonly called mere poetry, 
and I imagine there will scarcely be 
found a detached simile or a single 
isolated description, unless Beatrice's 
description of the chasm appointed for 
her father's murder should be judged 
to be of that nature.^ 

In a dramatic composition the im- 
agery and the passion should interpen- 
etrate one another, the former being 
reserved simply for the full develop- 
ment and illustration of the latter. 
Imagination is as the immortal God 
which should assume flesh for the re- 
demption of mortal passion. It is thus 
that tlie most remote and the most fam- 
iliar imagery may alike be fit for dra- 
matic purooses when employed in the 
illustration of strong feeling, which 
raises what is lov/, and levels to the ap- 
prehension that which is lofty, casting 
over all the shadow of its own great- 
ness. In other respects, I have written 
more carelessly ; that is, without an 
over-fastidious and learned choice of 
words. In this respect I entirely agree 
with those modern critics who assert 
that in order to move men to true sym- 
pathy v/e must use the familiar lan- 
guage of men, and that cur great an- 
cestors the ancient English poets are 
the writers, a study of whom might in- 
cite us to do that for our own ago 
whicli they have done for theirs. But 
it must be the real language of men in 
general and not that of any particular 
class to whose society the writer hap- 
pens to belong. So nuich for what I 
have attempted ; I need not be as- 
sured that success is a very different 
matter ; particularly for one whose 
attention has but newly been awaken- 
ed to the study of dramatic literature. 

I endeavored whilst at Rome to ob- 
serve such monuments of this story as 
might be accessible to a stranger. The 
portrait of Beatrice at the Colonna 
Palace is admirable as a work of art : 
it was taken by Guido during her con- 
finement in prison. But it is most in- 
teresting as a just representation of 
one of the loveliest specimens of the 

1 An idea in this speech was suggested 
by a most sublime passage in " El Purga- 
torio de Sau Patricio " of Calderon ; the 
only plagiarism which I have intentionally 
committed in the whole piece. 



v;orkmanship of Nature. There is a 
fixed and pale composure upon the 
features : she seems sad and stricken 
down in spirit, yet the despair thus ex- 
pressed is lightened by the patience of 
gentleness. Her head is bound with 
folds of white drapery from which the 
yellow strings of her golden hair es- 
cape, and fall about her neck. The 
moulding of her face is exquisitely 
delicate ; the eyebrows are distincl, 
and arched : the lips have that perma- 
nent meaning of imagination and sen- 
sibility which suffering has not re- 
pressed and whicii it seems as if death 
scarcely could extinguish. Her fore- 
head is large and clear ; her eyes 
which we are told were remarkable for 
their vivacity, are swollen with weep- 
ing and lustreless, but beautifully 
tender and serene. In the vrhole mien 
there is a simplicity and dignity which 
united with her exquisite loveliness 
and deep sorrow are inexpressibly 
pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to 
have been one of those rare persons in 
whom energy and gentleness dwell 
together without destroying one an- 
other : her nature was simple and pro- 
found. The crimes and miseries in 
which she was an actor and a sufferer 
are as the mask and the mantle In 
which circumstances clothed her for 
her impersonation on the scene of the 
world. 

The Cenci Palace is of great extent ; 
and though in part modernized, there 
yet remains a vast and gloomy pile of 
feudal architecture in the same state 
as during the dreadful scenes which 
are the subject of this tragedy. The 
Palace is situated in an obscure corner 
of Rome, near the quarter of the Jews, 
and from the upper windows you see 
the immense ruins of Mount Pala.tine 
half hidden under their profuse over- 
growth of trees. There is a court in one 
part of the Palace (perhaps that in 
whicli Cenci built the Chapel to St. 
Thomas), supported Ijy granite columns 
and adorned with antique friezes of fine 
workmanship, and built up, according 
to the ancient Italian fashion, with 
balcony over balcony of open-work. 
One of the gates of the Palace formed 
of immense stones and leading through 
a passage, dark and lofty and opening 
into gloomy subterranean chambers, 
struck me particularly. 

Of the Castle of Petrella, I could ob- 
tain no further information than that 
which is to be found in the manuscript. 



214 



THE CENCI. 



THE CENCI. 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
Count Francesco Cesci. 

Cardinal Camillo. 
Orsino, a Prelate . 
Savella, the Pope's Legate. 

Andrea, Servant to Cenci. 
Nobles— Judges — Guards— Servants. 
LCCRETIA, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother 
of his children. 
Beatrice, his Daucihter. 
The Scene lies principallyin Rome, but 
changes during the fourth Act to Petrella, 
a Castle among the Apulian Apennines 
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement 
VIII. 

ACT I. 

SCENE I.— An Apartment in 
THE Cenci Palace. 

Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal 
Camillo. 

Camillo. That matter of the mur- 
der is husht up 

If you consent to yield his Holiness 

Your ftef that lies beyond the Pincian 
gate.— 

It needed all my interest in the con- 
clave 

To bend him to this point : he said that 
you 

Bought perilous impunity with your 
gold ; 

That crimes like yours if once or twice 
compounded 

Enriched the Church, and respited 
from hell 

An erring soul which might repent and 
live : — 

But that the glory and the interest 

Of the high throne he fills, little con- 
sist 

With making it a daily mart of guilt 

As manifold and hideous as the deeds 

Which you scarce hide from men's re- 
volted eyes. 
Cenci. The third of my possessions 
—let it go ! 

Ay, I once heard the nephew of the 
Pope 

Had sent his architect to view the 
ground. 

Meaning to build a villa on my vines 

The next time I compounded with his 
uncle : 

I little thouglit he should outwit me 
so ! 



Henceforth no witness— not the lamp- 
shall see 

That which the vassal threatened to 
divulge 

Whose throat is choked with dust for 
his reward. 

The deed he saw could not have rated 
higher 

Than his most worthless life :— it 
angers me ! 

Respited me from Hell :— so may the 
Devil 

Respite their souls from Heaven. No 
doubt Pope Clement, 

And his most charitable nephews, pray 

That the Apostle Peter and the saints i 

Will grant for their sake that I long 
enjoy 

Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, 
and length of days 

Wherein to act the deeds which are 
the stewards 

Of their revenue.— But much yet re- 
mains 

To which they show no title. ,:j 

C<tmillo. Oh, Count Cenci ! l! 

So much that thou mightst honorably 
live 

And reconcile thyself with thine own 
heart 

And with thy God, and with the 
offended world. 

How hideously look deeds of lust and 
blood 

Thro' those snow white and venerable 
hairs ! — 

Your children should be sitting round 
you now. 

But that you fear to read upon their 
looks 

The shame and misery j'ou have writ- 
ten there. 

Where is your wife ? Where is your 
gentle daughter ? 

Methinks her sweet looks, which make 
all things else 

Beauteous and glad, might kill the 
fiend within you. 

Why is she barred from all society 
i But her own strange and uncomplain- 
ing wrongs ? 

Talk with me, Count,— you know I 
mean you well. 

I stood beside your dark and fiery 
youth 

Watching its bold and bad career, as 
men 

Watch meteors, but it vanisht not— 
I markt 

Your despera.te and remorseless man- 
hood : now 

Do I behold you in di.shonored age 



THE CENCI. 



215 



Charged with a thousand unrepented 

crimes. 
Yet I have ever hoped you would 

amend, 
And in that hope have saved your life 

three times. 
Cencl. For which Aldobrandino owes 

you now 
My fief beyond the Pincian.— Cardinal, 
One thing, I pray you, recollect hence- 
forth, 
And so we shall converse with less re- 
straint. 
A man you knew spoke of my wife and 

daughter- 
He was accustomed to frequent my 

house ; 
So the next day his wife and daughter 

came 
And asked if I had seen him ; and I 

smiled : 
I think they never saw him any more. 
Camillo. Thou execrable man, be- 
ware !— 
Cenci. Of thee ? 

Nay this is idle r— We should know 

each other. 
As to my character for what men call 

crime 
Seeing I please my senses as I list. 
And vindicate that right with force or 

guile, 
It is a public matter, and I care not 
If I discuss it with you. I may speak 
Alike to you and my own conscious 

heart— 
For you give out that you have half re- 
formed me, 
Therefore strong vanity will keep you 

silent 
If fear should not ; both will, I do not 

doubt. 
All men delight in sensual luxury. 
All men enjoy revenge ; and most exult 
Over the tortures they can never feel- 
Flattering their secret peace with 

others' pain. 
But I delight in nothing else. I love 
The sight of agony, and the sense of 

joy. 
When this shall be another's, and that 

mine. 
And I have no remorse and little fear. 
Which are, I think, the checks of other 

men. 
This mood has grown upon me, until 

now 
Any design my captious fancy makes 
The picture of its wish, and it forms 

none 
But such as men like you would start 

to know. 



Is as my natural food and rest de- 
barred 

Until it be accomplisth. 
CnmiUo. Art thou not 

Most miserable ? 
Ccnci. Why miserable ? — 

No.— I am what your theologians call 

Hardened ;— which they must be in 
impudence. 

So to revile a man's peculiar taste. 

True, I was happier than I am, while 
yet 

Manhood remained to act the thing I 
thought ; 

While lust was sweeter than revenge; 
and now 

Invention palls :— Ay, we must all 
grow old— 

And but that there yet remains a deed 
to act 

Whose horror might make sharp an 
appetite 

Duller than mine— I'd do— I know not 
what. 

When I was young I thought of noth- 
ing else 

But pleasure ; and I fed on honey 

Men, by St. Thomas ! cannot live like 

bees, 
And I grew tired :— yet, till I killed a 

foe. 
And heard his groans, and heard his 

children's groans, 
Knew I not what delight was else on 

earth. 
Which now delights me little. I the 

rather 
Look on such pangs as terror ill con- 
ceals. 
The dry fixt eyeball ; the pale quiver- 
ing lip> 
Which tell me that the spint weeps 

within 
Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat 

of Christ. 
I rarely kill the body, which preserves, 
Like a strong prison, the soul within 

mv power, 
Wherein I feed it with the breath of 

fear 
For hourly pain. 
Camillo. Hell's most abandoned 

fiend 
Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, 
Speak to his heart as now you speak to 

me ; 
I thank my God that I believe you not. 
Enter Andrea. 
Andrea. My Lord, a gentleman 

from Salamanca 
Would speak with you. 



216 



THE CENCI. 



Cenci. Bid him attend me In the 

grand saloon. \Exit Andrea. 

CamiUo. Farewell ; and I will i)ray 

Almighty God that thy false, impious 

words 
Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. 
[Exit Camillo. 
Cenci. The third of my possessions! 

I must use 
Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's 

sword, 
Falls from my withered hand. But 

yesterday 
There came an order from the Pope to 

make 
Fourfold provision for my cursed .sons; 
Whom I had sent from Rome to Sala- 
manca, 
Hoping some accident might cut them 

olT; 
And meaning if I could to starve them 

there. 
I pray thee, God, send some quick 

death upon them ! 
Bernardo and my wife could not be 

worse 
If dead and damned :— then, as to 

Beatrice— 
{Looking aroniul Jiiiii suspiciously.) 
I think they cannot hear me at that 

door ; 
What if they should ? And yet I need 

not speak 
Tho' the heart triumphs with itself in 

words. 
O, thou most silent air, that shalt not 

hear 
What now I think ! Thou, pavement, 

which I tread 
Towards her chamber, — let your echoes 

talk 
Of my imperious step .scorning sur- 
prise. 
But not of my intent !— Andrea '. 
Enter Andrea. 
Andrea. My lord ? 

Cenci. Bid Beatrice attend me in her 

chamber 
This evening :— no, at midnight and 

alone. [Exeunt. 

SCENE n.— A Garden ok the Cenci 

Palace. Enter Beatrice and Ou- 

siNo, as in conversation. 

Beatrice. Pervert not truth, 

Orsino. You remember where we held 

That conversation ;— nay, we see the 

spot 
Even from this cypress ;— two long 

years are past 
Since, on an April midnight, under- 
neath 



The moonlight ruins of mount Pala- < 

tine, I 

I did confess to you my secret mind. 
Orsino You .said you loved me then. 
Beatrice. You are a Priest, 

Speak to me not of love. 

Orsino. I may obtain 

The dispensation of the Pope to marry. 
Because I am a Priest do you believe 
Your image, as the hunter some struck 

deer, 
Pollow^s me not whether I wake or 

sleep ? 
Beatrice. As I have said, speak to 

me not of love ; 
Had you a dispensation I have not ; 
Nor will I leave this home of misery 
Whilst my poor Bernard, and that 

gentle lady 
To whom I owe life, and these virtuous 

thoughts. 
Must suffer what I still have strength 

to share. 
Alas, Orsino ! All the love that once 
I felt for you, is turned to bitter 

pain. 
Ours was a youthful contract, which 

you first 
Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will 

loose. 
And thus I love you still, but holily, 
Even as a sister or a spirit might ; 
And .so I swear a cold fidelity. 
And it is well perhaps we shall not 

marry. 
You have a sly, equivocating vein 
That suits me not. —Ah, wretched that 

I am ! 
Where shall I turn V Even now you 

look on me 
As you were not my friend, and as if 

you 
Discovered that I thought so, with 

false smiles 
Making my true suspicion seem your 

wi-ong. 
Ah no ! forgive me ; sorrow makes me 

seem 
Sterner than else my nature might 

have been ; 
I have a weight of melancholy 

thoughts. 
And they forbode,— but what can they 

forbode 
Worse than I now endure ? 

Orsino. All will be well. 

Is the petition yet prepared ? You 

know 
My zeal for all you wish, sweet Bea- 
trice ; 
Doubt not but I will use my utmost 

skill 



THE CENCI. 



21' 



So that the Pope attend to your com- 
plaint. 
Beatrice. Your zeal for all I wish ; 
— Ah me, you are cold ! 

Your utmost skill . . . speak but one 
word . . . (aside) Alas ! 

Weak and deserted creature that I 
am, 

Here I stand bickering with my only 
friend ! [To Orsino. 

This nigrht my father gives a sumptu- 
ous feast, 

Orsino ; he has heard some happy news 

From Salamanca, from my brothers 
there. 

And with this outward show of love he 
mocks 

His inward hate. 'Tis bold hypocrisy. 

For he would giadlier celebrate their 
deaths. 

Which I have heard him pray for on 
his knees : 

Great God ! that such a father should 
be mine ! 

But there is mighty preparation made, 

And all our kin, the Cenci, will be 
there, 

And all the chief nobility of Rome. 

And he has bidden me and my pale 
Mother 

Attire ourselves in festival array. 

Poor lady ! She expects some happy 
change 

In his dark spirit from this act ; I none. 

At supper I will give you the petition : 

Till when— farewell. 
Orsino. Farewell. (Exit Bea- 
trice. ) I know the Pope 

Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly 
vow 

But by absolving me from the revenue 

Of many a wealthy see ; and, Beatrice, 

I think to win thee at an easier rate. 

Nor shall he read her eloriuent petition ; 

He might bestow her on some poor re- 
lation 

Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister, 

And I should be deban*ed from all ac- 
cess. 

Then as to what she suffers from her 
father. 

In all this there is much exaggera- 
tion :— 

Old men are testy and will have their 
way ; 

A man may stab his enemy, or his vas- 
sal, 

And live a free life as to wine or 
women. 

And with a peevish temper may return 

To a dull home, and rate his wife and 
children ; 



Daughters and wives call this foul 

tyranny. 
I shall be well content if on my con- 
science 
There rest no heavier sin than what 

they suffer 
From the devices of my love — a net 
From which she shall escape not. Yet 

I fear 
Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring 

gaze, 
Whose beams anatomize me nerve by 

nerve 
And lay me bare, and make me blush 

to see 
My hidden thoughts.— Ah, no ! A 

friendless girl 
Who clings to me, as to her only 

hope :— 
I were a fool, not less than if a panther 
Were panic-stricken by the antelope's 

eye, 
If she escape me. \E.vit. 

SCENE III.— A Magnificent Hall 
IN THE Cenci Palace. A Banquet. 
Enter Cenci, Lucretia, Beatrice, 
Orsino, Camillo, Nobles. 

Cenci. Welcome, my friends and 

kinsmen ; welcome ye. 
Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the 

church. 
Whose presence honors our festivity. 
I have too long lived like an anchorite, 
And in my absence from your merry 

meetings 
An evil word has gone abroad of me ; 
But I do hope that you, my noble 

friends. 
When you have shared the entertain- 
ment here, 
And heard the pious cause for which 

'tis given. 
And Vie have pledged a health or two 

together, 
Will think me flesh and blood as well 

as you ; 
Sinful, indeed, for Adam made all so. 
But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful. 
First Guest. In truth, my Lord, you 

seem too light of heart. 
Too sprightly and companionable a 

man. 
To act the deeds that rumor pins on 

you. 
( To his companion. ) 1 never saw such 

blithe and open cheer 
In any eye ! 
Second Guest. Some most desired 

event, 
In which we all demand a common joy, 



218 



THE CENCI. 



Has brought us hither ; let us hear it, 

Count. 
Ccnci. It is indeed a most desired 

event. 
If, when a parent from a parent's heart 
Lifts from this earth to the great 

Father of all 
A prayer, both when he lays him down 

to sleep, 
And when he rises up from dreaming 

it ; 
One supplication, one desire, one hope. 
That he would grant a wish for his two 

sons, 
Even all that he demands in their re- 
gard — 
And suddenly beyond his dearest hope. 
It is accomplisht, he should then re- 
joice, 
And call his friends and kinsmen to a 

feast, 
And task their love to grace his merri- 
ment, 
Then honor me thus far — for I am he. 
Beatrice {to Lucretia). Great God ! 

How horrible ! Some dreadful ill 
Must have befallen my brothers. 

Lucretia. Fear not. Child, 

He speaks too frankly. 
Beatrice. Ah ! my blood 

runs cold. 
I fear that wicked laughter round his 

eye. 
Which wrinkles up the skm even to 

the hair. 
Cenci. Here are the letters brought 

from Salamanca ; 
Beatrice, read them to your mother. 

God ! 
I thank thee ! In one night didst thou 

perform. 
By ways inscrutable, the thing I 

sought. 
My disobedient and rebellious sons 
Are dead '.—Why, dead ! — What means 

this change of cheer ? 
You hear me not, I tell you they are 

dead ; 
And they will need no food or raiment 

more : 
The tapers that did light them the 

dark way 
Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, 

will not 
Expect I should maintain them in their 

coffins. 
Rejoice with me— my heart is wondrous 

glad. 

[Lucretia sinks, half-fainting ; 
Beatrice sxtpports her. 
Beatrice. It is not true !— Dear lady, 

pray look up. 



Had it been true, there is a God in 
Heaven, 

He would not live to boast of such a 
boon. 

Unnatural man, thou knowest that it 
is false. 
Cenci. Ay, as the word of God ; 
whom here I call 

To witness that I speak the sober 
truth ; — 

And whose most favoring Provide!K(> 
was shown 

Even in the manner of their deaths. 
For Rocco 

Was kneeling at the mass, with six- 
teen others, 

When the church fell and crusht him 
to a mummy, 

The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano 

Was stabbed in error by a jealous man, 

Whilst she he loved was sleeping with 
his rival ; 

All in the self-same hour of the same 
night ; 

Which shows that Heaven has special 
care of me. 

I beg those friends who love me, that 
they mark 

The day a feast upon their calendars. 

It was the twenty-seventh of Decem- 
ber : 

Ay, read the letters if you doubt my 
oath. 

\The as.scmbly appears con- 
fused ; several of the guests 
rise. 
First Oucst. Oh, horrible ! I will 

depart — 
Second Quest. And I. — 

Third Oucst. No, stay ! 

I do believe it is some jest ; tho' faith ! 

'T is mocking us somewhat too sol- 
emnly. 

I think his son has married the Infanta, 

Or found a mine of gold in El dorado ; 

'T is but to season some such news ; 
stay, stay ! 

I see 't is only raillery by his smile. 
Cenci (fllling a hotel of irine, (did 
lifting it up). Oh, thou bright 
wine whose purple splendor leaps 

And bubbles gayly in this golden bowl 

Under the lamp-light, as my spirits 
do. 

To hear the death of my accursed sons ! 

Could I believe thou wert their mingled 
blood. 

Then would I taste thee like a sacra- 
ment. 

And pledge with thee the mighty Devil 
in Hell, 

Who, if a father's curses, as men say, 



THE CENCI. 



219 



Climb with swift wings after their chil 

dren's souls, 
And drag them from the very throne 

of Heaven, 
Now triumphs in my triumph !— But 

thou art 
Superfluous ; I have drunken deep of 

joy, 
And I will taste no other wine to-night. 
Here, Andrea ! Bear the bowl around. 
A Guest (rising). Thou wretch ! 
Will none among this noble company 
Check the abandoned villain ? 

Cnmillo. For God's sake 

Let me dismiss the guests ! You are 

insane, 
Some ill will come of this. 
Second Guest. Seize, silence him ! 
First Guest. I will ! 
Till nl Guest. And I ! 

Cenci (addressing those tvlio rise 
with a threatening gesture). 
Who moves ? Who speaks ? 

(turning to the Company) 

't is nothing. 

Enjoy yourselves. — Beware ! For my 

revenge 
Is as the sealed commission of a king 
That kills, and none dare name the 
murderer. 
riVie Banquet is broken iip; 
several of the Guests are de- 
parting. 
Beatrice. I do entreat you, go not, 
noble guests ; 
What, altho' tyranny and impious 

hate 
Stand sheltered by a father's hoary 

hair? 
What, if 't is he who clothed us in these 

limbs 
Who tortures them, and triumphs ? 

What, if we, 
The desolate and the dead, were his 

own flesh, 
His children and his wife, whom he is 

bound 
To love and shelter ? Shall we there- 
fore find 
No refuge in this merciless wide world ? 

think what deep wrongs must have 

blotted out 
First love, then reverence in a child's 

prone mind, 
Till it thus vanquish shame and fear ! 

O think ! 

1 have borne much, and kissed the 

sacred hand 

Which erusht us to the earth, and 
thought its stroke 

Was perhaps some paternal chastise- 
ment ! 



Have excused much, doubted ; and 

when no doubt 
Remained, have sought by patience, 

love, and tears 
To soften him, and when this could not 

be 
I have knelt down through the long 

sleepless nights 
And lifted up to God, the father of all. 
Passionate prayers : and when these 

were not heard 
I have still borne,— until I meet you 

here. 
Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous 

feast 
Given at my brothers' deaths. Two 

yet remain. 
His wife remains and I, whom if ye 

save not. 
Ye may soon share such merriment 

again 
As fathers make over their children's 

graves. 
O Prince Colonna, thou art our near 

kinsman, 
Cardinal, thou art the Pope's Chamber- 
lain, 
Camillo, thou art chief justiciary. 
Take us away ! 
Cenci (he has been eonversing with 

Camillo during the first part of 

Beatrice's speech ; he hears the 

conclusion, and 7iow advances). 

I hope my good friends here 
Will think of their own daughters — or 

perhaps 
Of their own throats— before they lend 

an ear 
To this wild girl. 
Beatrice (not noticing the words of 

Cenci). Dare no 0!ie look 

on me? 
None answer ? Can one tyrant over- 
bear 
The sense of many best and wisest 

men ? 
Or is it that I sue not in some form 
Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my 

suit? 
O God ! That I were buried with my 

brothers ! 
And that the flowers of this departed 

spring 
Were fading on my grave ! And that 

my father 
Were celebrating now one feast for all ! 
Camillo. A bitter wi.sh for one so 

young and gentle ; 
Can we do nothing ? 

Colonna. Nothing that I see. 

Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy : 
Yet I would second any one. 



320 



THE CENCI. 



A Cardinal. And I. 

Cenci. Retire to your chamber, in- 
solent girl ! 
Beatrice. Retire thou impious man ! 
Ay hide thyself 

Where never eye can look upon thee 
more ! 

Wouldst thou have honor and obedi- 
ence 

Who art a torturer ? Father, never 
dream 

Though thou mayst overbear this com- 
pany, 

But ill must come of ill.— Frown not 
on me ! 

Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging 
looks 

My brothers' ghosts should hunt thee 
from thy seat ! 

Cover thy face from every living 
eye. 

And start if thou but hear a human 
step : 

Seek out some dark and silent corner, 
there, 

Bow thy white head before offended 
God, 

And we will kneel around, and fer- 
vently 

Pray that he pity both ourselves, and 
thee. 
Cenci. My friends, I do lament this 
insane girl 

Has spoilt the mirth of our festivity. 

Good-night, farewell ; I will not make 
you longer 

Spectators of our dull domestic quar- 
rels. 

Another time. — 

\Exeu)it all hut Cenci and Bea- 

TRICE. 

My brain is swimming round ; 
Give me a bowl of wine ! 

[To Beatrice. 

Thou painted viper ! 

Beast that thou art ! Fair and yet 

terrible ! 
I know a charm shall make thee meek 

and tame. 
Now get thee from my sight ! 

[Exit Beatrice. 
Here, Andrea, 
Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. 

I said 
I would not drink this evening ; but I 

must ; 
For, strange to say, I feel my spirits 

fail 
With thinking what I have decreed 
to do. 

[Drinkincj the xvine. 
Be thou the resolution of quick youth 



Within my veins, and manhood's pur- 
pose stern. 

And age's firm, cold, subtle villany ; 

As if thou wert indeed my children's 
blood 

Which I did thirst to drink ! The 
charm works well ; 

It must be done ; it shall be done, I 
swear ! [Exit. 

END OF FIRST ACT. 

ACT II. 

SCENE I.— An Apartment in the 
Cenci Palace. Enter Lucretia 
and Bernardo. 

Lucretia. Weep not, my gentle 

boy ; he struck but me 
Who have borne deeper wrongs. In 

truth, if he 
Had killed me, he had done a kinder 

deed. 
O, God Almighty, do thou look upon us, 
We have no other friend but only 

thee ! 
Yet weep not ; though I love you as 

my own, 
I am not your true mother. 

Bernardo. O more, more. 

Than ever mother was to any child, 
That have you been to me ! Had he 

not been 
My father, do you think that I should 

weep ! 
Lucretia. Alas ! Poor boy, what 

else couldst thou have done ! 
Enter Beatrice. 
Beatrice (in a hurried voice). Did 

he pass this way ? Have you 

seen him, brother ? 
Ah ! No, that is his step upon the 

stairs ; 
'T is nearer now ; his hand is on the 

door ; 
Mother, if I to thee have ever been 
A duteous child, now save me I Thou, 

great God, 
Whose image upon earth a father is. 
Dost thou indeed abandon me ? He 

comes ; 
The door is opening now ; I see his 

face ; 
He frowns on others, but he smiles on 

me. 
Even as he did after the feast last night 

Enter a Scrvayit. 
Almighty God, how mercif\;' thou art • 
'T is but Orsino's servant. — Well, what 

news ? 
Servant. My master bids me say^ 

the Holy Father 



THE CENCI. 



221 



Has sent back your petition thus un- 
opened. [Giving a 'paper. 
And he demands at what hour 't were 

secure 
To visit you again ! 
Lucretia. At the Ave Mary. 

[Exit Servant. 
So, daughter, our last hope has failed ; 

Ah me ! 
How pale you look ; you tremble and 

you stand 
Wrapt in some fixed and fearful medi- 
tation. 
As if one thought were over strong for 

you : 
Your eyes have a chill glare ; O, dearest 

child ! 
Are you gone mad ? If not, pray 

speak to me. 
Beatrice. You see 1 am not mad : I 

speak to you. 
Lncreiia. You talkt of .something 

that your father did 
After that dreadful feast ? Could it 

be worse 
Than when he smiled, and cried. My 

sons are dead ! 
And every one lookt in his neighbor's 

face 
To see if others were as white as he ? 
At the first word he spoke I felt the 

blood 
Rush to my heart, and fell into a 

trance ; 
And when it past I sat all weak and 

wild ; 
Whilst you alone stood up, and with 

strong words 
Checkt his unnatural pride ; and I 

could see 
The devil was rebuked that lives in 

him. 
Until this hour thus have you ever 

stood 
Between us and your father's moody 

wrath 
Like a protecting presence : your firm 

mind 
Has been our only refuge and defence : 
What can have thus subdued it ? 

What can now 
Have given you that cold melancholy 

look. 
Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear ; 
Beatrice. What is it that you say ? 

I was just thinking 
'T were better not to struggle any 

more. 
Men, like my father, have been dark 

and bloody. 
Yet never— Oh ! Before worse comes 

of it 



'T were wise to die : it ends in that at 
la-st. 
Lucretia. O talk not so, dear child I 
Tell me at once 
What did your father do or say to 

you? 
He stayed not after that . accursed 

feast 
One moment in your chamber. —Speak 
to me. 
Bernardo. O sister, sister, prithee, 

speak to us ! 
BeatriGe (speaKing very slowly with 
a forced calmness. ) It was one word, 

Mother, one little word ; 
One look, one smile. (Wildly.) Oh ! 

He has trampled me 
Under Jiis feet, and made the blood 

stream down 
My pallid cheeks. And he has given 

us all 
Ditch water, and the fever-stricken 

fiesh 
Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve, 
And we have eaten.— He has made me 

look 
On my beloved Bernardo, when the 

rust 
Of heavy chains has gangrened his 

sweet limbs, 
And I have never yet despaired— but 

now ♦ 
What could I say 'f \RecoverinQ her- 
self. 

Ah ! No, 't is nothing new 
The sufferings we all share have made 

me wild : 
He only struck and curst me as he 

past ; 
He said, he lookt, he did ;— nothing at 

all 
Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me. 
Alas ! I am forgetful of my duty, 
I should preserve my senses for your 
sake. 
Lucretia. Nay, Beatrice ; have 
courage my sweet girl, 
if any one despairs it should be I 
Who loved him once, and now must 

live with him 
Till God in pity call for him or me. 
For you may, like your sister, find 

some husband, 
And smile, years hence, with children 

round your knees ; 
Whilst I, then dead, and all this hid- 
eous coil 
Shall be remembered only as a dream. 
Beatrice. Talk not to me, dear 
lady, of a husband. 
Did you not nurse me when my mother 
died? 



223 



THE CENCI. 



Did you not shield me and that dearest 
boy ? 

And had Ave any other friend but you 

In infancy, witii gentle words and looks 

To win our father not to murder us ? 

And shall I now desert you ? May the 
ghost 

Of my dead Mother plead against my 
soul 

If I abandon her who filled the place 

tihe left, with more, even, than a 
mother's love ! 
Bernardo. And I am of my sister's 
mind. Indeed 

I would not leave you in this wretched- 
ness, 

Even though the Pope should make 
me free to live 

In some blithe place, like others of my 
age. 

With sports, and delicate food, and 
the fresh air. 

O never think that I will leave you, 
Mother ! 
Lucrctin. My dear, dear children ! 

Enter Cenci, suddcnli). 
Cenci. What, Beatrice here ! 

Come hither ! 

[She shrinlis hack, and covers her 
J ace. 
Nay, hide not your face, 't is fair ; 

I^ook up ! Why, yesternight you dared 
to look 

With disobedient insolence upon me, 

Bending a stern and an inquiring brow 

On what i meant ; whilst I then 
sought to hide 

That which I came to tell you— but in 
vain. 
Beatrice ( ivildly, staggering to- 
wards the door). O that the 
earth would gape ! Hide me, O 
God ! 

Cenci. Then it was I whose inarticu- 
late v/ords 

Fell from my lips, and who with totter- 
ing steps 

Fled from your presence, as you now 
from mine. 

Staj', I command you — from this day 
and hour 

Never again, I think, with fearless eye, 

And brow superior, and unaltered 
cheek. 

And that lip made for tenderness or 
scorn, 

Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of 
mankind ; 

Me least of all Now get thee to thy 
chamber 1 

Thou too, loathed image of thy cursed 
mother, 



[To Bernardo. 

Thy milky, meek face makes me sick 
with hate ! 
[Exeunt Beatrice and Ber- 
nardo. 

( Aside. ) So much has passed between 
us as must make 

Me bold, her fearful.— 'T is an awful 
thing 

To touch such mischief as I now con- 
ceive : 

So men sit shivering on the dewy bank, 

And try the chill stream with their 
feet ; once in . . . 

How the delighted spirit pants for 

Joy! 
Liicretia advancing timidly to- 
wards him). O husband ! Pray 

forgive poor Beatrice. 
She meant not any ill. 

Cenci. Nor you perhaps ? 

Nor that young imp, whom you have 

taught by rote 
Parricide with his alphabet ? Nor 

Giacomo ? 
Nor those two most unnatural sons, 

who stirred 
Enmity up against me with the Pope ? 
Whom in one night merciful God cut 

off : 
Innocent lambs ! They thought not 

any ill. 
You were not here conspiring ? You 

said nothing 
Of how I might be dungeoned as a 

madman ; 
Or be condemned to death for some 

offence, 
And you would be the witnesses ?— This 

failing, 
How just it were to hire assassins, or 
Put sudden poison inlmy evening drink ? 
Or smother me when overcome by 

wine ? 
Seeing we had no other judge but God, 
And he had sentenced me, and there 

were none 
But you to be the executioners 
Of his decree enregistered in heaven ? 
Oh, no ! You said not this ? 

Lncretia. So help me God, 

I never thought the things you charge 

me with ! 
Cenci . I f y ou dare speak that wicked 

Ue again 
I'll kill you. What ! It was not by 

your counsel 
That Beatrice disturbed the feast last 

night ? 
You did not hope to stir some enemies 
Against me, and escape, and laugh to 

scorn 



THE CENCI. 



223 



What every nerve of you now trembles 

at? 
You judge that men were bolder than 

they are ; 
Few dare to stand between their grave 

and me. 
Lucretla. Look not so dreadfully ! 

By my salvation 
I knew not aught that Beatrice de- 
signed ; 
Nor do I think she designed anything 
Until she heard you talk of her dead 

brothers. 
Ccnci. Blaspheming liar ! You are 

damned for this ! 
But 1 will take you where you may 

persuade 
The stones you tread on to deliver you: 
For men shall there be none but those 

who dare 
All things— not question that which I 

command. 
On "Wednesday next I shall set out : 

you know 
That savage rock, the Castle of Pe- 

trella : 
'T is safely walled, and moated round 

about : 
Its dungeons underground, and its 

thick towers 
Never told tales ; though they have 

heard and seen 
What might make dumb things 

speak.— Why do you linger ? 
Make speediest preparation for the 

journey ! [Exit Lucretia. 

The all-beho'lding sun yet shines ; 'I 

hear 
A busy stir of men about the streets ; 
I see the bright sky through the win- 
dow panes : 
It is a garish, broad, and peering day ; 
Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and 

ears, 
And every little corner, nook, and 

hole 
Is penetrated with the insolent light. 
Come darkness ! Yet, what is the day 

to me ? 
And wherefore should I wish for night, 

who do 
A deed which shall confound both 

night and day ? 
'T is she shall grope through a bewilder- 
ing mist 
Of horror ; if there be a sun in heaven 
She shall not dare to look upon its 

beams ; 
Nor feel its warmth. Let her then 

wish for night ; 
The act I think shall soon extinguish all 
For me : I bear a darker deadlier gloom 



Than the earth's shade, or interlunar 

air. 
Or constellations quencht in murkiest 

cloud, 
In which I walk secure and unbeheld 
Towards my purpose.— Would that it 

wei'e done ! [Exit. 

SCENE II.— A Chamber in the 
Vatican. Enter Camillo and 
GiAcoMo, in conversation. 

Camillo. There is an obsolete and 

doubtful law 
By which you might obtain a bare 

provision 
Of food and clothing— 

Glacomo. Nothing more ? Alas ! 

Bare must be the provision wliich strict 

law 
Awards, and aged, sullen avarice pays. 
Why did my father not apprentice me 
To some mechanic trade ? I should 

have then 
Been trained in no highborn necessities 
Which I could meet not by my daily 

toil. 
The eldest son of a rich nobleman 
Is heir to all his incapacities ; 
He has wide wants, and narrow powers. 

If you, 
Cardinal Camillo, were i-educed at once 
From thrice-driven beds of down, and 

delicate food. 
An hundred servants, and six palaces, 
To that which nature doth indeed re- 
quire f — 
Camillo. Nay, there is reason in 

your plea ; 't were hard. 
Giaco)no. 'T is hard for a firm man 

to bear : but I 
Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, 
Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my 

father 
Without a bond or witness to the deed : 
And children, who inherit her fine 

senses. 
The fairest creatures in this breathing 

world ; 
And she and they reproach me not. 

Cardinal, 
Do you not think the Pope would inter- 
pose 
And stretch authority beyond the law ? 
Camillo. Though your peculiar case 

is hard, I know 
The Pope will not divert the course of 

law. 
After that impious feast the other 

night 
I spoke with him, and ui'ged him then 

to check 



224 



THE CENCI. 



Your father's cruel hand ; he frowned 
and said, 

"Children are disobedient, and they 
sting 

Their fathers' hearts to madness and 
despair. 

Requiting years of care with con- 
tumely. 

I pity the Count Cenci from my heart ; 

His outraged love perhaps awakened 
hate, 

And thus he is exasperated to ill. 

In the great war between the old and 
young 

I, who have white hairs and a totter- 
ing body, 

Will keep at least blameless neu- 
trality." 

Enter Orsino. 

You, my good Lord Orsino, heard those 
words. 
Orsino. What words ? 
Gldcomo. Alas, repeat them 

not again ! 

There then is no redress for me, at 
least 

None but that which I may achieve 
myself, 

Since I am driven to the brink.— But, 
say, 

My innocent sister and my only brother 

Are dying underneath my father's 
eye. 

The memorable torturers of this land, 

Galeaz, Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin, 

Never inflicted on the meanest slave 

What these endure ; shall they have 
no protection ? 
CainiUo. Why, if they would peti- 
tion to the'Pope 

I see not how he could refuse it — 
yet 

He holds it of most dangerous example 

In aught to weaken the paternal power. 

Being, as 't were, the shadow of his 
own. 

I pray you now excuse me. I have 
business 

That will not bear delay. 

[Exit Camillo. 
Giacomo. But you, Orsino, 

Have the petition : wherefore not pre- 
sent it ? 
Orsino. I have presented it, and 
backed it with 

My earnest prayers, and urgent inter- 
est ; 

It was returned unanswered. I doubt 
not 

But that the strange and execrable 
deeds 



Alleged in it— in truth they might well 

baffle 
Any belief— have turned the Pope's 

displeasure 
Upon the accusers from the criminal : 
So I should guess from what Camillo 

said. 
Giacomo. My friend, that palace- 
walking devil Gold 
Has whispered silence to his Holiness : 
And we are left, as scorpions ringed 

with fire. 
What should we do but strike ourselves 

to death ? 
For he who is our murderous persecutor 
Is shielded by a father's holy name, 
Or I would — {Stops abruptly.) 

Orsino. What ? Fear nor to speak 

your thought. 
Words are but holy as the deeds they 

cover : 
A priest who has forsworn the God he 

serves ; 
A judge who makes Truth weep at his 

decree ; 
A friend who should weave counsel, as 

I now. 
But as the mantle of some selfish 

guile ; 
A father who is all a tyrant seems, 
Were the profaner for his sacred name. 
Gi<tcomo. Ask me not what I think ; 

the unwilling brain 
Feigns often what it would not ; and 

we trust 
Imagination with such fantasies 
As the tongue dares not fashion Into 

words. 
Which have no words, their horror 

makes them dim 
To the mind's eye. — My heart denies 

itself 
To think what you demand. 

Orsino. But a friend's bosom 

Is as the inmost cave of our own mind 
Where we sit shut from the wide gaze 

of day. 
And from the all-communicating air. 
You look what I suspected — 

Giacomo. Spare me now ! 

I am as one lost in a midnight wood. 
Who dares not ask some harmless pas- 
senger 
The path across the wilderness, lest he. 
As my thoughts are, should be— a mur- 
derer. 
I know you are my friend, and all I 

dare 
Speak to my soul that will I trust with 

thee. 
But now my heart is heavy, and would 

take 



THE CENCI. 



Lone counsel from a night of sleepless 
care. 

Pardon me, that I say farewell— fare- 
well ! 

I would that to my own suspected self 

I could address a word so full of peace. 
Orsiuo. Farewell !— Be your 
thoughts better or more bold. 

\E.rlt GiACOMO. 

I had disposed the Cardinal Caniillo 

To feed his hope with cold encourage- 
ment : 

It fortunately serves my close designs 

That 't is a trick of this same family 

To analyze their own and other minds. 

Such self-anatomy shall teach the will 

Dangerous secrets : for it tempts our 
powers, 

Knowing what must be thought, and 
may be done. 

Into the depth of darkest purposes : 

So Cenci fell into the pit ; even I, 

Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself, 

And made me shrink from what I can- 
not shun, 

Show a poor figure to my own esteem, 

To which I grow half reconciled. I'll 
do 

As little mischief as I can ; that 
thought 

Shall fee the accuser conscience. 
(After (I, pdusc.) Now what harm 

If Cenci should be murdered ? — yet, if 
murdered, 

Wherefore by me ? And what if I 
could take 

The profit, yet omit the sin and peril 

In such an action? Of all earthly things 

I fear a man whose blows outspeed his 
words ; 

And such is Cenci : and while Cenci 
lives 

His daughter's dowry were a secret 
grave 

If a priest wins her. — Oli, fair Beatrice ! 

Would that I loved thee not, or loving 
thee 

Could but despise danger and gold and 
all 

That frowns between my wish and its 
effect. 

Or smiles beyond it ! There is no es- 
cape . . . 

Her bright form kneels beside me at 
the altar. 

And follows me to the resort of men, 

And tills my slumber with tumultuous 
dreams, 

So when I wake my blood seems liquid 
fire ; 

And if I strike my damp and dizzy 
head 

15 



My hot palm scorches it : her very 

name, 
But spoken by a stranger, makes my 

heart 
Sicken and pant; and thus unprofit- 

ably 
I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights 
Till weak imagination half possesses 
The self- created shadow. Yet much 

longer 
Will I not nurse this life of feverous 

hours : 
From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo 
I must work out my own dear purposes. 
I see, as from a tower, the end of all : 
Her father dead ; her brother bound 

to me 
By a dark secret, surer than the grave ; 
Her mother scared and unexpostulat- 

ing 
From the dread manner of her wish 

achieved : 
And she !— Once more take courage my 

faint heart ; 
What dares a friendless maiden matcht 

with thee ? 
I have such foresight as assures suc- 
cess : 
Some unbeheld divinity doth ever, 
When dread events are near, stir up 

men's minds 
To black suggestions ; and he prospers 

best, 
Not who becomes the instrument of ill, 
But who can flatter the dark spirit, 

that makes 
Its empire and its prey of other hearts 
Till it become his slave ... as I will 

do. [Exit. 

END OF THE SECOND ACT. 



ACT III. 
SCENE I.— An Apartment in the 
Cenci Palace. Lucretia, to her 
enter Beatrice. 

Beatrice (she enters staggering, and 

speaks wildly). Reach me that 

handkerchief ! — My brain is hurt; 

My eyes are full of blood ; just wipe 

them for me . . . 
I see but indistinctly. 

Lucretia. My sweet child, 

You have no wound ; 't is only a cold 

dew 
That starts from your dear bi'ow . . . 

Alas ! Alas ! 
What has befallen ? 
Beatrice. How comes this hair 

undone ? 



2^G 



THE CENCI. 



Its wandering strings must be wliat 

blind me so, 
And j'et I tied it fast.— O, liorrible ! 
Tlie pavement sinks under my feet ! 

The walls 
Spin round ! I see a woman weeping 

there, 
And standing calm and motionless, 

whilst I 
Slide giddily as the world reels. . . . 

My God ! 
The beautiful blue heaven is fleckt 

with blood ! 
The sunshine on the floor is black ! 

The air 
Is changed to vapors such as the dead 

breathe 
In charnel pits ! Pah ! I am chokedj ! 

There creeps 
A clinging, black, contaminating mist 
About me . . . "t is substantial, heavy, 

thick, 
I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues 
My fingers and my limbs to one an- 
other,- 
And eats into my sinews, and dissolves 
My tlesh to a pollution, poisoning 
Tlie subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of 

life ! 
My God ! I never knew what the mad 

felt 
Before ; for I am mad beyond all 

doubt ! 
(Move ivildly.) No, I am dead ! These 

putrefying limbs 
Shut round and sepulchre the panting 
" soul 
Which would burst forth into the 

wandering air ! (^4 pause.) 

What hideous thought was that I had 

even now ? 
'T is gone ; and yet its burden remains 

here 
O'er these dull eyes . . . upon this 

weary heart ! 
O world ! O life ! O day ! O misery ! 
Lucretia. What ails thee, my poor 

child ? She answers not : 
Her spirit apprehends the sense of 

pain, 
But not its cause ; suffering has dried 

away 
The source from which it sprung . . . 
Beatrice {franticaUy). Like Parri 

cide ... 
Misery has killed its father : yet its 

father 
Never like mine . . . O God ! What 

thing am I ? 
Lucretia. My dearest child, what 

has your father done ? 
Beatrice {doiibtfuUy). Who art 



thou, questioner ? I have no 

father. 
{Aside.) She is the madhouse nurse 

who tends on me, 
It is a piteous oflSce. 
{To Lucretia, in a slow, subdued 

voice.) 

Do you know 
I thought I was that wretched Beatrice 
Men speak of, whom her father some- 
times hales 
From hall to haU by the entangled 

hair ; 
At others, pens up naked in damp cells 
Where scaly reptiles crawl, and 

starves her there, 
Till she will eat strange flesh. This 

woful story 
So did I overact in my sick dreams. 
That I imagined . . . no, it cannot be ! 
Horrible things have been in this wild 

world. 
Prodigious mixtures, and confusions 

strange 
Of good and ill ; and worse have been 

conceived 
Than ever there was found a heart to 

do. 
But never fancy imaged such a deed 
As . . . {Pauses, suddenly recollect- 
ing herself.) 
Who art thou ?" Swear to me, ere 

I die 
With fearful expectation, that indeed 
Thou art not what thou seemest . . . 

Mother ! 
Lucretia. Oh ! 

My sweet child, know you . . . 

Beatrice. Yet speak it not : 

For then if this be truth, that other 

too 
Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth, 
Linkt with each lasting circumstance 

of life. 
Never to change, never to pass away. 
Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace ; 
Thou art I^ucretia ; I am Beatrice. 
I have talkt some wild words, but will 

no more. 
Mother, come near me : from this point 

of time, 
I am . . . {Her voice dies away 

faintly.) 
Lucretia. Alas ! What has befallen 

thee, child ? 
What has thy father done ? 

Beatrice. What have I done ? 

Am I not innocent ? Is it my crime 
That one with white hair and imperi- 
ous brow, 
Who tortured me from my forgotten 

years 



THE OENCI. 



As parents only dare, should call him- 
self 
My father, yet should be ! — Oh, what 

ami? 
What name, what place, what memory 

shall be mine ? 
What retrospects, outliving even de- 
spair ? 
Lucrctla. He is a violent tyrant, 

surely, child : 
We know that death alone can make 

us free ; 
His death or ours. But what can he 

have done 
Of deadlier outrage or worse injury ? 
Thou art unlike thyself ; thine eyes 

shoot forth 
A wandering and strange spirit. 

Speak to me, 
Unlock those pallid hands whose 

fingers twine 
With one another. 

Beatrice 'T is the restless life 

Tortured within them. If I try to 

speak 
I shall go mad. Ay, something must 

be done ; 
What, yet I know not . . . something 

which shall make 
The thing that I have suffered but a 

shadow 
In the dread lightning which avenges 

it ; 
Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying 
The consequences of what it cannot 

cure. 
Some such thing is to be endured or 

done : 
When I know what, I shall be still and 

calm. 
And never any thing will move me 

more. 
But now !— O blood, which art my 

father's blood, 
Circling thro' these contaminated 

veins. 
If thou, poured forth on the polluted 

earth, 
Could wash away the crime, and 

punishment 
By which I suffer . . . no, that cannot 

be ! 
Many might doubt there were a God 

above 
Who sees and permits evil, and so 

die : 
That faith no agony shall obscure in 

me. 
Lucrctia. It must indeed have been 

some bitter wrong ; 
Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my 

lost child, 



Hide not in proud impenetrable grief 

Thy sufferings from my fear. 
Beatrice. I hide them not. 

What are the words which you would 
have me speak ? 

I, who can feign no image in my mind 

Of that which has transformed me : I, 
whose thought 

Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up 

In its own formless horror : of all 
words 

That minister to mortal intercourse. 

Which wouldst thou hear ? For there 
is none to tell 

My misery : if another ever knew 

Aught like to it, she died as I will die, 

And left it, as I must, without a name. 

Death ! Death ! Our law and our reli- 
gion call thee 

A punishment and -a reward . . . Oh, 
which 

Have I deserved ? 
Lucrctla. The peace of innocence ; 

Till in your season you be called to 
heaven. 

Whate'er you may have suffered, you 
have done 

No evil. Death must be the punish- 
ment 

Of crime, or the reward of trampling 
down 

The thorns which God has strewed 
upon the path 

Which leads to immortality. 

Beatrice. Ay, death . . . 

The punishment of crime. I pray thee, 
God, 

Let me not be bewildered whiie I judge. 

If I must live day after day, and keep 

These limbs, the unworthy temple of 
thy spirit, 

As a foul den from which what thou 
abhorrest 

May mock thee, unavenged ... it 
shall not be ! 

Self-murder . . . no, that might be no 
escape, 

For thy decree yawns like a Hell be- 
tween 

Our will and it :— Oh ! In this mortal 
world 

There is no vindication and no law 

Which can adjudge and execute the 
doom 

Of that thro' which I suffer. 
Enter Orsino. 

{She approaches him. solemnly.) Wel- 
come, Friend ! 

I have to tell you that, since last we 
met, 

I have endured a wrong so great and 
strange. 



228 



THE CENCI. 



That neither life nor death can give me 

rest. 
Ask me not what it is, for there are 

deeds 
Which have no form, sufferings which 

have no tongue. 
Orshuj. And what is he who has 

thus injured you ? 
Beatrice. The man they call my 

father : a dread name. 
Orsino. It cannot be . . . 
Beatrice. What it can be, or not, 
Forbear to think. It is, and it has been ; 
Advise me how it shall not be again. 
I thought to die ; but a religious awe 
Restrains me, and the dread lest death 

itself 
Might be no refuge from the conscious- 
ness 
Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak ! 
Orsmo. Accuse him of the deed, 

and let the law 
Avenge thee. 
Beatrice. Oh, ice-hearted coun- 
sellor ! 
If I could find a word that might make 

known 
The crime of my destroyer ; and that 

done, 
My tongue should like a knife tear out 

the secret 
Which cankers my heart's core ; ay, 

lay all bare 
So that my unpolluted fame should 

be 
With vilest gossips a stale mouthed 

story ; 
A mock, a bye-word, an astonish- 
ment : — 
If this were done, which never shall 

be done, 
Think of the offender's gold, his 

dreaded hate, 
And the strange horror of the accuser's 

tale, 
Baffling belief, and overpowering 

speech ; 
Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapt 
In hideous hints . . . Oh, most assured 

redress ! 
Orsino. You will endure it then ? 
Beatrice. Endure ?— Orsino, 

It seems your counsel is small profit. 
{Turns from, him, and speaks half 

to herself.) Ay, 

All must be suddenly resolved arid 

done. 
What is tills undistinguishable mist 
Of thoughts which rise, like shadow 

after shadow, 
Dai'kening each other ? 
Orsino. Should the offender live ? 



Triumph in his misdeed ? and make, 
by use. 

His crime, whate'er it is, dreadful no 
doubt, 

Thine element ; until thou mayest be- 
come 

Utterly lost ; subdued even to the hue 

Of that which thou permittest ? 
Bea trice {to h crscl f). Mighty death ! 

Thou doubled-visaged shadow ? Only 
judge ! 

Rightfullest arbiter ! 

{She retires absorbed in thought.) 
Lncretia. If the lightning 

Of God has e'er descended to avenge . . . 
Orsino. Blaspheme not ! His high 
Providence commits 

Its glory on this earth, and their own 
wrongs 

Into the hands of men ; if they neglect 

To punish crime . . . 
Lucretia. But if one, like this 
wretch. 

Should mock, with gold, opinion, law, 
and power ? 

If there be no appeal to that which 
makes 

The guiltiest tremble ? If because our 
wrongs. 

For that they are unnatural, strange, 
and monstrous. 

Exceed all measure of belief ? O God ! 

If, for the very reasons which should 
make 

Redress most swift and sure, our in- 
surer triumphs ? 

And we, the victims, bear worse pun- 
ishment 

Than that appointed for their torturer ? 
Orsino. Think not 

But that there is redress where there 
is wrong. 

So we be bold enough to seize it. 
Lucretia. How ? 

If there were any way to make all sure, 

I know not . . . but I think it might 
be good 

To . . . 
Orsino. Why, his late outrage to 
Beatrice ; 

For it is such, as I but faintly guess. 

As makes remorse dishonor, and leaves 
her 

Only one duty, how she may avenge : 

You, but one refuge from ills ill en- 
dured ; 

Me, but one counsel . . . 
Lucretia. For we cannot hope 

That aid, or retribution, or resource 

Will arise thence, where every other 
one 

Might find them with less need. 



THE CENCI. 



'l:>\) 



(Beatrice advances.) 
Orsino. Then . . . 

Beatrice. Peace, Orsino ! 

And, honored Lady, while I speak, I 
pray 

That you put off, as garments over- 
worn. 

Forbearance and respect, remorse and 
fear, 

And all the fit restraints of daily life. 

Which have been borne from child- 
hood, but which now 

"Would be a mockery to my holier 
leap. 

As I have said, I have endured a wrong. 

Which, though it be expressionless, is 
such 

As asks atonement ; both for what is 
past, 

And lest I be I'eserved, day after day. 

To load with crimes an overburdened 
soul, 

And be . . . what ye can dream not. 
I have prayed" 

To God, and I have talkt with my own 
heart, 

■Vnd have unravelled my entangled 
will. 

And have at length determined what 
is right. 

A.vt thou my friend, Orsino ? False or 
true f 

I'ledge thy salvation ere I speak. 
Orsino. I swear 

To dedicate mj- cunning, and my 
strength. 

My silence, and whatever else is mine, 

To thy commands. 
Lncrctia. You think we should de- 
vise 

His death ? 
Beatrice. And execute what is de- 
vised, 

And suddenly. We must be brief and 
bold. 
Orsino. And yet most cautious. 
Lucretia. For the jealous laws 

Would punish us with death and in- 
famy 

For that which it became themselves 
to do. 
Beatrice. Be cautious as ye may, 
but prompt. Orsino, 

What ai'e the means ? 
Orsino. I know two dull, 

fierce outlaws, 

Who think man's spirit as a worm's, 
and they 

Would trample out, for any slight 
caprice, 

The meanest or the noblest life. This 
mood 



Is marketable here in Rome. They sell 
What we now want. 

Lucretia. To-morrow before dawn, 

Cenci will take us to that lonely rock, 

Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines. 

If he arrive there . . . 

Beatrice. He must not arrive. 

Orsino. Will it be dark before you 

reach the tower ? 
Lucretia. The sun will scarce be set. 
Beatrice. But I remember 

Two miles on this side of the fort, the 

road 
Crosses a deep ravine ; 't is rough and 

narrow, 
And winds with short turns down the 

precipice ; 
And in its depth there is a mighty 

rock. 
Which has, from unimaginable years. 
Sustained itself with terror and with 

toil 
Over a gulf, and with the agony 
With which it clings seems " slowly 

coming down ; 
Even as a wretched soul hour after 

hour, 
Clings to the mass of life ; yet clinging, 

leans ; 
And leaning, makes more dark the 

dread abyss 
In which it fears to fall : beneath this 

crag 
Huge as despair, as if in weariness, 
The melancholy mountain yawns . . . 

below. 
You hear but see not an impetuous 

torrent 
Raging among the caverns, and a 

bridge 
Crosses the chasm ; and high above 

there grow, 
With intersecting trunks, from crag 

to crag, 
Cedars, and J^ews, and pines ; whose 

tangled hair 
Is matted in one solid roof of shade 
By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday 

here 
'Tis twilight, and at simset blackest 

night. 
Orsino. Before you reach that 

bridge make some excuse 
For spurring on your mules, or loiter- 
ing 
Until . . . 
Beatrice. What sound is that ? 

Lucretia. Hark ! No, it cannot be a 

servant's step ; 
It must be Cenci, unexpectedly 
Returned . . . Make some excuse for 

being here. 



230 



THE CENCI. 



Beatrice. {To CnsiNO, as she goes 

out.) 
That step we hear approach must never 

pass 
The bridge of which we spoke. 

\Exetint LucRETiA and Beatrice. 

Orsino. What shall I do ? 

Cenci must find me here, and I must 

bear 
The imperious inquisition of his looks 
As to what brought me hither : let me 

mask 
Mine own in some inane and vacant 

smile. 
Enter GiACOMo, in a hurried man- 
ner. 
<How I Have you ventured hither ? 

Know you then 
That Cenci is from home ? 

Giaconio. I .sought him here ; 

And now must wait till he returns. 

Orsino. Great God ! 

Weigh you the danger of this rash- 
ness ? 
Giacomo. Ay ! 

Does my destroyer know his danger ? 

We 
Are now no more, as once, parent and 

child, 
But man to man ; the oppressor to the 

opprpst ; 
The slanderer to the slandered ; foe to 

foe : 
He has cast Nature off, which was his 

shield. 
And Nature casts him off, who is her 

shamo ; 
And I spurn both. Is it a father's 

throat 
Which I will shake, and say, I ask not 

gold ; 
I ask not happy years ; nor memories 
Of tranquil childhood ; nor home-shel- 
tered love ; 
Tho' all these hast thou torn from me, 

and more ; 
But only my fair name ; only one hoard 
Of peace, which I thought hidden from 

thy hate, 
Under the penury heapt on me by thee. 
Or I will . . . God can understand and 

pardon. 
Why should I speak with man ? 
Orsino. Be calm, dear friend. 

Giacomo. Well, I will calmly tell 

you what he did. 
This old Francesco Cenci, as you know, 
Borrowed the dowry of my wife from 

me. 
And then denied the loan ; and left me 

so 
In poverty, the which I sought to mend 



By holding a poor office in the state. 
It had been promist to me, and already 
I bought new clothing for my ragged 

babes, 
And my wife smiled ; and my heart 

knew repose. 
When Cenci's intercession, as I found. 
Conferred this office on a wretch, 

whom thus 
He paid for vilest service. I returned 
With this ill news, and we sate sad to- 
gether 
Solacing our de.spondency with tears 
Of such affection and unbroken faith 
As temper life's worst bitterness ; 

when he. 
As he is wont, came to upbraid and 

curse. 
Mocking our poverty, and telling us 
Such was God's scourge for disobedient 

sons. 
And then, that I might strike him. 

dumb with shame, 
I spoke of my wife's dowry ; but he 

coined 
A brief yet specious tale, how I had 

wasted 
The sum in secret riot ; and he saw 
My wife was toucht and he went smil- 
ing forth. 
And when I knew the impression he 

had made, 
And felt my wife insult with silent 

scorn 
My ardent truth, and look averse and 

cold, 
I went forth too : but soon returned 

again ; 
Yet not so soon but that my wife had 

taught 
My children her harsh thoughts, and 

they all cried, 
" Give us clothes, father 1 Give us 

better food ! 
What you in one night squander were 

enough 
For months ! " I lookt, and saw that 

home was hell. 
And to that hell will I return no 

more 
Until mine enemy has rendered up 
Atonement, or as he gave life to me 
I will, reversing nature's law . . . 

Orsino. Trust me, 

The compensation which thou seekest 

here 
Will be denied. 
Giacomo. Then . . . Are you 

not my friend ? 
Did you not hint at the alternative, 
Upon the brink of which you see I 

stand, 



THE CENCl. 






The other day when we conversed to- 
gether ? 
My wrongs were then less. That word 

parricide, 
Altho' I am resolved, haunts me like 

fear. 
Orsino. It must be fear itself, for 

the bare word 
Is hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest 

God 
Draws to one point the threads of a 

just doom. 
So sanctifying it : what you devise 
Is, as it were, accomplisht. 
Glacomo. Is he dead ? 

Orsino. His grave is ready. Know 

that since we met 
Cenci has done an outrage to his 

daughter. 
Oiacovio. What outi-age ? 
Orsino. That she speaks 

not, but you may 
Conceive such half conjectures as I do. 
From her fixt paleness, and the lofty 

grief 
Of her stern brow bent on the idle 

air, 
And her severe unmodulated voice. 
Drowning both tenderness and dread ; 

and last 
From this ; that whilst her step-mother 

and I, 
Bewildered in our horror, talked to- 
gether 
With obscure hints ; both self-mis- 
understood 
And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our 

talk. 
Over the truth, and yet to its revenge. 
She interrupted us, and with a look 
Which told before she spoke it, he 

must die : . . . 
Qiacomo. It is enough. My doubts 

are well appeased ; 
There is a higher reason for the act 
Than mine ; there is a holier judge 

than me, 
A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice, 
Who in the gentleness of thy sweet 

youth 
Hast never trodden on a worm, or 

bruised 
A living flower, but thou hast pitied it 
With needless tears ! Fair sister, thou 

in whom 
Men wondered how such loveliness and 

wisdom 
Did not destroy each other ! Is there 

Ravage of thee ? Oh heart, I ask no 

more 
Justification ! Shall I wait, Orsino, 



Till he return, and stab him at tho 
door ? 
Orsino. Not so ; some accident 
might interpose 
To rescue him from what is now most 

sure; 
And you are unprovided where to fly, 
How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, 

listen : 
All is contrived ; success is so assured 
That . . . 

Enter Beatrice. 
Beatrice. 'T is my brother's voice ! 

You know me not ? 

Giacomo. My sister, my lost sister ! 

Beatrice. Lost indeed ! 

I see Orsino has talkt with you, and 

That you conjecture things too horrible 

To speak, yet far less than the truth. 

Now, stay not, 
He might return : yet kiss me ; I shall 

know 
That then thou hast consented to his 

death. 
Farewell, farewell ! Let piety to God, 
Brotherly love, justice and clemency 
And all things that make tender hard- 
est hearts 
Make thine hard, brother. Answer 
not . . . farewell. 

[Exeu7it sei^erally. 

SCENE II.— A MEAN Apartment in 
GiACOMO's House. Giacomo alone. 

Giacomo. 'T is midnight, and Or- 
sino comes not yet. 
[Thunder, and the sound of a storm. 

What ! can the everlasting elements 

Feel with a worm like man ? If so the 
shaft 

Of mercy-winged lightning would not 
fall 

On stones and trees. My wife and 
children sleep : 

They are now living in unmeaning 
dreams : 

But I must wake, still doubting if that 
deed 

Be j ust which was most necessary. Oh, 

Thou unreplenished lamp ! whose nar- 
row fire 

Is shaken by the wind, and on whose 
edge 

Devouring darkness hovers ! Thou 
small flame. 

Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls. 

Still flickerest up and down, how very 
soon. 

Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail 
and be 



233 



THE CENCI. 



As thou hadst never been ! So wastes 

and sinks 
Even now, perhaps, the life tliat 

kindled mine : 
But that no power can fill with vital oil 
That broken lamp of flesh. Ha ! 't is 

the blood 
Which fed these veins that ebbs till all 

is cold : 
It is the form that moulded mine that 

sinks 
Into the white and yellow spasms of 

death : 
It is the soul by which mine was 

arrayed 
In God's immortal likeness which now 

stands 
Naked before Heaven's judgment seat! 
(A bell strikes. ) One ! Two ! 

The hours crawl on ; and when ray 

hairs are white, 
My son will then perhaps be waiting 

thus, 
Tortured between just hate and vain 

remorse ; 
Chiding the tardy messenger of news 
Like those which I expect. I almost 

wi.sh 
He be not dead, although my wrongs 

are great ; 
Yet ... 't is Orsino's step . . . 
Enter Ousino. 
Speak ! 
Orsino. I am come 

To say he has escaped. 
Giacomo. Escaped ! 

Orsino. And safe 

Within Petrella. He past by the spot 
Appointed for the deed an hour too 

soon. 
Oiacomo. Are we the fools of such 

contingencies ? 
And do we waste in blind misgivings 

thus 
The hours when we should act ? Then 

wind and thunder, 
Which seemed to howl his knell, is the 

loud laughter 
With which Heaven mocks our weak- 
ness ! 1 henceforth 
Will ne'er repent of aught designed or 

done 
But my repentance. 
Orsino. See, the lamp is out. 

Giacomo. If no remorse is ours 

when the dim air 
Has drank this innocent flame, why 

should we quail 
When Cenci's life, that light by which 

ill spirits 
See the worst deeds they prompt, shall 

sink for ever Y 



Iso, I am hardened. 
Orst)w. Why, what need of this ? 

Who feared the pale intrusion of re- 
morse 

la a just deed ? Altho' our first plan 
failed. 

Doubt not but he will soon be laid to 
rest. 

But light the lamp ; let us not talk i' 
the dark. 
Giacomo {lighting the lamp). And 
yet once quericht I cannot thus 
relume 

My father's life: do you not think his 
ghost 

Might plead that argument with God ? 
Orsino. Once gone 

You cannot now recall your sister's 
peace ; 

Your own extinguisht years of youth 
and hope ; 

Nor your wife's bitter words ; nor ah 
' the taunts 

Which, from the prosperous, weak mis- 
fortune takes ; 

Nor your dead mother ; nor . . . 
Giacomo. O, speak no more ! 

I am resolved, although this very hand 

Must quench the life that animated 
it. 
Orsino. There is no need of that. 
Listen : you know 

Olimpio, tlie castellan of Petrella 

In old Colonna's time ; him whom your 
father 

Degraded from his post ? And Marzio, 

That desperate wretch, whom he de- 
prived last year 

Of a reward of blood, well earned and 
due ? 
Giacomo. I knew Olimpio ; and 
they say he hated 

Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage 

His lips grew white only to see him 
pass. 

Of Marzio I know nothing. 
Orsino. Marzio's hate 

Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these 
men, 

But in your name, and as at your re- 
quest, 

To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia. 
Giacovio. Only to talk ? 
Orsino. The moments 

which even now 

Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight 
hour 

May memorize their flight with death : 
ere then 

They must have talkt, and may per- 
haps have done, 

And made an end . . . 



THE CENOI. 



333 



Oiacomo. Listen ! What sound 

is that ? 
Orsino. The house-dog moans, and 
the beams crack : nought else. 
Giacomo. It is my wife complain- 
ing in her sleep : 
I doubt not she is saying bitter things 
Of me ; and all my children round her 

dreaming 
That I deny them sustenance. 

Orsino. Whilst he 

Who truly took it from them, and who 

fills 
Their hungry rest with bitterness, now 

sleeps 
Lapt in bad pleasures, and triumph- 
antly 
Mocks thee in visions of successful hate 
Too like the truth of day. 

Oiacomo. If e'er he wakes 

Again, I will not trust to hireling 

hands . . . 

Orsino. Why, that were well. I 

must be gone ; good-night : 

When next we meet — may all be done ! 

Giacomo. And all 

Forgotten : Oh, that I had never been ! 

[Exeunt. 

END OF THE THIRD ACT. 

ACT IV. 
SCENE I.— An Apartment in the 
Castle of Petrella. Enter Cenci. 
Ccnci. She comes not ; yet I left 

her even now 
Vanquisht and faint. She knows the 

penalty 
Of her delay : yet what if threats are 

vain ? 
Am I not now within Petrella's moat ? 
Or fear I still the eyes and ears of 

Rome? 
Might I not drag her by the golden 

hair ? 
Stamp on her ? Keep her sleepless till 

her brain 
Be overworn ? Tame her with chains 

and famine ? 
Less would suffice. Yet so to leave 

undone 
What I most seek ! No, 'tis her stub- 
born will 
Which by its own consent shall stoop 

as low 
(As that which drags it down. 
Enter Lucketia. 

Thou loathed wretch ! 
Hide thee from my abhorrence ; fly, 

begone ! 
Yet stay ! Bid Beatrice come hither. 
Lucretia. Oh, 



Husband ! I pray for thine own 

wretched sake 
Heed what thou dost. A man who 

walks like thee 
Thro' crimes, and thro' the danger of 

his crimes, 
Each hour may stvunble o'er a sudden 

grave. 
And thou art old ; thy hairs are hoary 

gray; 
As thou wouldst save thyself from 

death and hell, 
Pity thy daughter ; give her to some 

friend 
In marriage : so that she may tempt 

thee not 
To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse 

there be. 
Cenci. What ! like her sister who 

has found a home 
To mock my hate from with pros- 
perity ? 
Strange ruin shall destroy both her 

and thee 
And all that yet remain. My death 

may be 
Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go, 
Bid her come hither, and before my 

mood 
Be changed, lest I should drag her by 

the hair. 
Lucretia. She sent me to thee, hus- 
band. At thy presence 
She fell, as thou dost know, into a 

trance ; 
And in that trance she heard a voice 

which said, 
" Cenci must die ! Let him confess him- 
self ! 
Even now the accusing Angel waits to 

hear 
If God, to punish his enormous crimes. 
Harden his dying heart !" 
Cenci. Why— such 

things are . . . 
No doubt divine revealings may be 

made. 
'T is plain I have been favored from 

above, 
For when I curst my sons they died. — 

Ay . . . so . . . 
As to the right or wrong that's talk 

. . . repentance . . . 
Repentance is an easy moment's work. 
And more depends on God than me. 

Well . . .well . . . 
I must give up the greater point, which 

was 
To poison and corrupt her soul. 
\A pause; Lucretia approaches 

anxiously, and then shrinks 

bacli as he speaks. 



234 



THE CENCT. 



One, two ; 

Ay . . . Rocco and Cristofano my 
curse 

Strangled : and Giacomo, I think, will 
find 

Life a worse Hell than that beyond 
the grave : 

Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate, 

Die in despair, blaspheming : to Ber- 
nardo, 

He is so innocent, I will bequeath 

The memory of these deeds, and make 
his youth 

The sepulchre of hope, where evil 
thoughts 

Shall grow like weeds on a neglected 
tomb. 

When all is done, out in the wide Cam- 
pagna, 

I will pile up my silver and my gold ; 

My costly robes, paintings, and tapes- 
tries ; 

My parchments and all records of my 
wealth, 

And make a bonfire in my joy, and 
leave 

Of my possessions nothing but my 
name ; 

Which shall be an inheritance to strip 

Its wearer bare as infamy. That done. 

My soul, which is a scourge, will I re- 
sign 

Into the hands of him who wielded it ; 

Be it for its own punishment or theirs, 

He will not ask it of me till the lash 

Be broken in its last and deepest 
wound ; 

Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, 

Lest death outspeed my purpose, let 
me make 

Short work and sure . . . \Going. 

Lucrctia. {Stops him.) Oh, stay ! 
It was a feint : 

She had no vision, and she heard no 
voice. 

I said it but to awe thee. 
CciicL That is well. 

Vile palterer with the sacred truth of 
God, 

Be thy soul choked with that blas- 
pheming lie ! 

For Beatrice worse terrors are in store 

To bend her to my will. 
Lucrctia. Oh ! to what will ? 

What cruel sufferings more than she 
has known 

Canst thou inflict ? 
Ccnci. Andrea! Go call my daughter, 
( To LucRETiA. ) And if she comes 
not tell her that I come. 
What sufferings? I will drag her, 
step by step, 



Thro' infamies unheard of amongi 

men : 
She shall stand shelterless in the broad 

noon 
Of public scorn, for acts blazoned 

abroad, 
One among which shall be . . . Whatii 

Canst thou guess ? 
She .shall become (for what she mosti 

abhors \ 

Shall have a fascination to entrap 
Her loathing will) to her own conscious' 

self 
All she appears to others ; and when 

dead, 
As she shall die unshrived and unfor i 

given, 
A rebel to her father and her God, 
Her corpse shall be abandoned to the 

hounds ; 
Her name shall be the terror of the 

earth ; 
Her spirit shall approach the thrOne 

of God 
Plague-spotted with my curses. I wil 

make 
Body and soul a monstrous lump ol^ 

ruin. 

Enter Andrea. 
Andrea. The Lady Beatrice . 
Cenci. Speak, paW 

slave ! What 
Said she ? 
Andrea. My Lord, 't was what slm 

lookt ; she said : 
" Go tell my father that I see the gul 
Of Hell between us two, which he may 

pass, I 

I will not." [Exit Andrea ' 

Ccnci. Go thou quick, Lucretia 

Tell her to come ; yet let her under 

stand 
Her coming is consent : and say, more 

over, 
That if she come not I will curse her. 
\Exit Lucretia 
Ha 
With what but with a father's curst 

doth God 
Panic-strike armed victory, and mak< 

pale 
Cities in their prosperity ? The world'; 

Must grant a parent's prayer agains 

his child 
Be he who asks even what men cal 

iT^e. , ,,. 

Will not the deaths of her rebellion 

brothers 
Awe her before I speak ? For I oi 

them 
Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came 



THE CENCI. 



335 



Enter Lucretia. 
Well ; what ? Speak, wretch ! 
Lucretia. She said, 

"I cannot come ; 
Go tell my father that I see a torrent 
Of his own blood raging between us.'' 
Ceyici {kneeling). God ! 

Hear nie ! if this most specious mass 

of flesh, 
Which thou hast made my daughter ; 

this my blood. 
This particle of my divided being ; 
Or rather, this my bane and my disease, 
Whose sight infects and poisons me ; 

this devil 
Which sprung from me as from a hell, 

was meant 
To aught good use ; if her bright loveli- 
ness 
Was kindled to illumine this dai'k 

world ; 
If nurst by thy selectest dew of love 
Such virtues blossom in her as should 

make 
The peace of life, I pray thee for my 

sake. 
As thou the common God and Father 

art 
Of her, and me, and all ; reverse that 

doom ! 
Earth, in the name of God, let her food 

be 
Poison, until she be encrusted round 
With leprous stains ! Heaven, rain 

upon her head 
The blistering drops of the Maremma's 

dew, [up 

Till she be speckled like a toad ; parch 
Those love-enkindled lips, warp those 

fine limbs 
To loathed lameness ! All-beholding 
! sun. 

Strike in thine envy those life-darting 

eyes 
With thine own blinding beams ! 

Lucretia. Peace ! Peace ! 

For thine own sake unsay those dread- 
ful words. 
When high God grants he punishes 
' such prayers. 

Ccnci ( leaping up and throwing his 

right hand toward Heaven). 

He does his will, I mine ! This 

in addition, 
'^That if she have a child . . . 
' Lucretia. Horrible thought ! 

' Cenci. That if she ever have a 

child ; and thou, 
Quick Nature ! I adjure thee by thy 

God, 
That thou be fruitful in her, and in- 
crease 



And' multiply, fulfilling his command, 

And my deep imprecation ! May it be 

A hideous likeness of herself, that as 

From a distorting mirror, she may see 

Her image mixt with what she mo.st 
abhors. 

Smiling upon her from her nursing 
breast. 

And that the child may from its in- 
fancy 

Grow, day by day, more wicked and 
deformed, 

Turning her mother's love to misery : 

And that both she and it may live un- 
til 

It shall repay her care and pain with 
hate. 

Or what may else be more unnatural. 

So he may hunt her through the clam- 
orous scoffs 

Of the loud world to a dishonored 
grave. 

Shall I revoke this curse ? Go, bid her 
come, 

Before mj' words are chronicled in 
Heaven. 

f Exit Lucretia. 

I do not feel as if I were a man. 

But like a fiend appointed to chastise 

The offences of some unremembered 
world. 

My blood is running up and down my 
veins ; 

A fearful pleasure makes it prick and 
tingle : 

I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe ; 

My heart is beating with an expecta- 
tion 

Of horrid joy. 

Enter Lucretia. 

What ? Speak ! 
Lucretia. She bids thee curse ; 

And if thy curses, as they cannot do, 

Could kill her soul . . . 
Cenci. She would not 

come. 'T is well, 

I can do both : first take what I de- 
mand, 

And tlien extort concession. To thy 
chamber ! 

Fly ere I spurn thee : and beware this 
night 

That thou cross not my footsteps. It 
were safer 

To come between the tiger and his 
prey. 

[ Exit Lucretia. 

It must be late ; mine eyes grow weary 
dim 

With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep. 

Conscience ! Oh, thou most insolent of 
lies ! 



236 



THE CENCI. 



They say that sleep, that healing dew 

of Heaven, 
Steeps not in balm the foldings of the 

brain 
AVhich thinks thee an impostor. I will 

go 
First to belie thee with an hour of rest, 
Which will be deep and calm, I feel : 

and then . . . 
O, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will 

Thine arches with the laughter of their 

joy ! 
There shall be lamentation heard in 

Heaven 
As o'er an angel fallen ; and upon 

Earth 
All good shall droop and sicken, and ill 

things 
Shall with a spirit of unnatural life 
Stir and be quickened . • . even as I 

am now. [ Exit. 



SCENE II.— Befoue the Castle of 
Petrella. Enter Beatrice and 
liUCRETlA above on the Ramparts. 

Beatrice. They come not yet. 
Lucretia. 'T is scarce midnight. 

Beatrice. How slow 

Behind the course of thought, even 

sick with spee<l, 
Lags leaden-footed time ! 

Lucretia. The minutes pass . . . 

If he should wake before the deed is 

done? 

Beatrice. O mother ! He must 

never wake again. 

What thou hast said persuades me that 

our act 
Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell 
Out of a human form. 

Lucretia. 'T is true he spoke 

Of death and judgment with strange 

confidence 
For one so wicked ; as a man believ- 
ing 
In God, yet recking not of good or ill. 
And yet'to die without confession ! . . . 
Beatrice. Oh ! 

Believe that Heaven is merciful and 

just. 
And will not add our dread necessity 
To the amount of his offences. 
Enter Olimpio and Marzio helon\ 
Lucretia. See, 

They come. 
Beatrice. All mortal things must 
hasten thus 
To their dark end. Let us go down. 



[Exeunt Lucretia and Bea- 
trice from aboi^'e. 
Olimpio. How feel you to this- 

work ? 
Marzio. As one who thinks • 

A thousand crowns excellent market 

price 
For an old murderer's life. Your 
cheeks are pale. 
Olimpin. It is the white reflections 
of your own. 
Which you call pale. 
Marziu. Is that their natural hue ? 
Olimpio. Or 't is my hate and the 
deferred desire 
To wreak it, which extinguishes their i 
blood. 
Marzio. You are inclined then to 

this business ? 
Olimpio. Ay. 

If one should bribe me with a thousand 1 

crowns 
To kill a serpent which had stung my 

child, 
I could not be more willing. 
Enter Beatrice and, Lucretia, 
foe? 010. 

Noble ladies ! 

Beatrice. Are ye resolved ? 

Olimpio. Is he asleep ? 

Marzio. Is all! 

Quiet ? 

Lucretia. I mixt an opiate with i 

his drink : 
He sleeps so soundly . . . 

Beatrice. That his death will be 
But as a change of sin-chastising 

dreams, 
A dark continuance of the Hell within 

him, 
Which God extinguish ! But ye are 

resolved ? 
Ye know it is a high and holy deed ? 
Olimpio. We are resolved. 
Marzio. As to the how thiSi 

act 
Be warranted it rests with you. 
Beatrice. Well, follow ! 

Olimpio. Hush ! Hush ! What 

noise is that ? 

Marzio. Ha ! some one comes !| 

Beatrice. Ye conscience - strickeni 

cravens, rock to rest 

Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, 

Which ye left open, swinging to th^ 

wind. 
That enters whistling as in scorn. 

Come, follow ! 
And be your steps like mine, light, 
quick and bold. 

[Exeunt. 



THE CENCI. 



237 



SCENE III.— An Apartment in the 
Castle. Enter Beatrice and 

LUCRETIA. 

LucreUa. They are about it now. 
Beatrice. Nay, it is done. 

Lucretia. I have not heard him 

groan. 
Beatrice. He will not groan. 

Lucretia. What sound is that ? 
Beatrice. List ! 't is the 

tread of feet 
About his bed. 

Lucretia. My God ! 

If he be now a cold stiff corpse . . . 

Beatrice. O, fear not 

What may be done, but what is left 

undone : 
The act seals all. 

Enter Olimpio and Marzio. 

Is it accomplished ? 
Marzio. What ? 

Olimpio. Did you not call ? 
Beatrice. When ? 

Olimpio. Now. 

Beatrice. I ask if all is over ? 

Olimpio. We dare not kill an old 
and sleeping man ; 
His thin gray hair, his stern and rever- 
ent brow. 
His veined hands crosst on his heaving 

breast. 

And the calm innocent sleep in which 

he lay, fdo it. 

Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, 1 cannot 

Marzio. But I was bolder ; for I 

chid Olimpio, 

And bade him bear his wrongs to his 

own grave 
And leave me the reward. And now 

my knife 
Toucht the loose wrinkled throat, when 

the old man 
Stirred in his sleep, and said, "God ! 

hear, O, hear, 
A father's curse ! What, art thou not 

our father ? " 
And then he lauglit. I knew it was 

the ghost 
Of my dead father speaking through 

his lips. 
And could not kill him. 

Beatrice. Miserable slaves ! 

Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping 

man, 
Found ye the boldness to return to me 
With such a deed undone ? Base pal- 

terers ! 
Cowards and traitors ! Why, the very 

conscience 
Which ye would sell for gold and for 
revenge 



Is an equivocation : it sleeps over 

A thousand daily acts disgracing men ; 

And when a deed where mercy insults 

Heaven . . . 
Why do I talk ? 
[Snatching a dagger from one of 
them and raising it. 

Hadst thou a tongue to say. 
She murdered her own father, I must 

doit ! 
But never dream ye shall outlive him 
long ! 
Olimpio. Stop, for God's sake ! 
Marzio. I will go back and 

kill him. 
Olimpio. Give me the weapon, we 

must do thy will. 
Beatrice. Take it ! Depart ! Re- 
turn ! 
{Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio. 
How pale thou art ! 
We do but that which 't were a deadly 

crime 
To leave undone. 
Lucretia. Would it were done ! 

Beatrice. Even whilst 

That doubt is passing through your 

mind, the world 
Is conscious of a change. Darkness 

and Hell 
Have swallowed up the vapor they 

sent forth 
To blacken the sweet light of life. My 

breath 
Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jel- 
lied blood 
Runs freely thro' my veins. Hark ! 
Enter Olimpio and Marzio. 

He is . . . 

Olimpio. Dead I 

Marzio. We strangled him that 

there might be no blood ; 

And then we threw his heavy corpse i' 

the garden 

Under the balcony ; 't will seem it fell. 

Beatrice {givi}ig them a hag of coin). 

Here, take this gold, and hasten 

to your homes. 

And, Marzio, because thou wast only 

awed 
By that which made me tremble, wear 
thou this ! 
\Clothcs him in a rich mantle. 
It was the mantle whicli my grand- 
father 
Wore in his high prosperity, and men 
Envied liis state : so may they envy 

thine. 
Thou wert a weapon in the hand of 

God 
To a just use. Live long and thrive ! 
And, mark, 



238 



THE CENCI. 



if thou hast crimes, repent : this deed 
is none. 

[A horn is sounded. 
Lucrctia. Hark, 't is the castle 
horn ; my God ! it sounds 
Like the last trump. 
Beatrice. Some tedious guest 

is coming. 
Lucretla. The drawbridge is let 
down ; there is a tramp 
Of horses in the court ; fly, hide your- 
selves ! 
[Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio. 
Beatrice. Let us retire to counter- 
feit deep rest ; 
I scarcely need to counterfeit it now : 
The spirit which doth reign within 

these limbs 
Seems strangely undisturbed. I could 

even sleep 
Fearless and calm : all ill is surely past. 
[ExexLnt. 

SCENE IV.— Anothek Apartment 
IN THE Castle. Enter on one side 
the Legate Savella, introduced 
by a Servant, and on the other 
Lucretia and Bernardo. 

Savella. Lady, my duty to his Holi- 
ness 
Be my excuse that thus unseasonably 
I break upon your rest. I must speak 

with 
Count Cenci ; doth he sleep ? 
Luiictia [in a hurriedand cotifused 

manner). I think he sleeps ; 

Yet wake him not, I pray, spare me 

awhile. 
He is a wicked and a wrathful man ; 
Should he be roused out of his sleep to- 
night, 
Which is, I know, a hell of angry 

dreams. 
It were not well ; indeed it were not 

well. 
Wait till day break . . . (aside) O, I 

am deadly sick ! 
Savella. I grieve thus to distress 

you, but the Count 
Must answer charges of the gravest 

import, 
And suddenly ; such my commission is. 
Lucretla {with increased agitation). 

I dare not rouse him : I know 

none who dare . . . 
'T were perilous ; . . . you might as 

safely waken 
A serpent ; or a corpse in which some 

fiend 
Were laid to sleep. 
Savella. Lady, my moments here 



Are counted. I must rouse him from 

his sleep, 
Since none else dare. 
Lucrctia (aside). O, terror ! O, de- 
spair ! [ 
(To Bernardo) Bernardo, conduct you i 

the Lord Legate to 
Your father's chamber. 

\E.veunt Savella a jk? Bernardo. 
Enter Beatrice. i 

Beatrice. 'T is a messenger ' 

Come to arrest the culprit who now 

stands 
Before the throne of unappealable God. 
Both Earth and Heaven, consenting 

arbiters, 
Acquit our deed. 

Lucretia. Oh, agony of fear ! 

Would that he yet might live ! Even 

now I heard 
The Legate's followers whisper as they 

past 
They had a warrant for his instant 

death. 
All was prepared by unforbidden means 
Which we must pay so dearlj-, having 

done. 
Even now they search the tower, and 

find the body ; 
Now they suspect the truth ; now they 

consult 
Before they come to tax us with the 

fact ; 
O, horrible, 't is all discovered ! 

Beatrice. Mother, 

What is done wisely, is done well. Be 

bold 
As thou art just. 'T is like a truant 

child 
To fear that others know what thou 

hast done. 
Even from thine own strong conscious- 
ness, and thus 
Write on unsteady eyes and altered 

cheeks 
All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to 

thyself. 
And fear no other witness but thy fear. 
For if, as cannot be, some circumstance 
Should rise in accusation, we can blind 
Suspicion with such cheap astonish- 
ment. 
Or overbear it with such guiltless pride. 
As murderers cannot feign. The deed 

is done. 
And what may follow now regards not { 

me. 
I am as universal as the light ; 
Free as the earth-surrounding air ; as 

firm 
As the world's centre. Consequence, 

to me, 



THE CENCI. 



230 



Is as the wind which strikes the solid 

rock 
But shakes it not. 

\A (■)•]/ irithhi and tumult. 
Voices. Murder ! Murder ! Mur- 
der ! 
Enter Bernardo and Savella. 
SeivcUa (to hisfoUoivcrs). Go searcli 
tlie castle round ; sound the 
alarm ; 
Look to the gates that none escape ! 
Beatrice. What now ? 

Bernardo. I know not what to 

say . . . my father's dead. 
Beatrice. How ; dead I he only 
sleeps ; you mistake, brother. 
His sleep is very calm, very like death ; 
'T is wonderful how well a tyrant 

sleeps. 
He is not dead ? 
Bernardo. Dead ; murdered. 

Lucretia (with extreme agitation). 
Oh no, fto, 
He is not murdered though he may be 

dead ; 
I have alone the keys of those apart- 
ments. 
Savella. Ha ! Is it so ? 
Beatrice. My Lord, I 

pray excuse us ; 
We will retire ; my mother is not well : 
She seems quite overcome with this 
strange horror. 
[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. 
Savella. Can you suspect who may 

have murdered him ? 
Bernardo. I know not what to 

think. 
Savella. Can you name any 

Who had an interest in his death ? 

Bernardo. Alas ! 

I can name none who had not, and 

those most 
Who most lament that such a deed is 

done ; 
My mother, and my sister, and myself. 
Sa Delia. 'T is strange! There were 
clear marks of violence. 
I found the old man's body in the moon- 
light 
Hanging beneath the window of his 

chamber, 
Among the branches of a pine : he 

could not 
Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay 

heapt 
And effortless ; 't is true there was no 

blood . . . 
Favor me. Sir ; it much imports your 

house 
That all should be made clear ; to tell 
the ladies 



That I request their presence. 

{Exit Bernardo. 

Enter GtUARds bringing in Marzio. 

Guard. We have one. 

Officer. My Lord, we found this 

ruffian and another 

Lurking among the rocks ; there is no 

doubt 
But that they are the murderers of 

Count Cenci : 
Each had a bag of coin ; this fellow 

wore 
A gold-inwoven robe, which shining 

bright 
Under the dark rocks to the glimmer- 
ing moon 
Betrayed them to our notice : the other 

fell 
Desperately fighting. 
Savella. What does he confess ? 

Officer. He keeps firm silence ; but 
these lines found on him 
Ma^y speak. 
Savella. Their language is at least 
sincere. \Rcadii. 

" To the Lady Beatrice.— That the 
atonement of what my nature sickens 
to conjecture may soon arrive, I send 
thee, at thy brother's desire, those who 
will speak and do more than I dare 
write. . . . Thy devoted servant, 

" Orsino." 
£» fee Lucretia, Beatrice, and 
Bernardo. 
Knowest thou this writing. Lady ? 
Beatrice. No. 

Savella. Nor thou ? 

Lucretia. (Her cond net througho^it 
the scene is marked hy extreme 
agitation.) Where was it found? 
What is it ? It should be 
Orsino's hand ! It speaks of that 

strange horror 
Which never yet found utterance, but 

which made 
Between that hapless child and her 

dead father 
A gulf of obscure hatred. 

Savella. Is it so ? 

Is it true. Lady, that thy father did 
Such outrages as to awaken in thee 
Unftlial hate ? 
Beatrice. Not hate, 't was more 
than hate : 
This is most true, yet wherefore ques- 
tion me '? 
Savella. There is a deed demanding 
question done ; 
Thou hast a secret which will answer 
not. 
Beatrice. What sayest ? My Lord, 
your words are bold and rash. 



240 



THE CENCI. 



SavcUa. I do aiTest all present in 

the name 
Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to 

Rome. 
Lucrctia. O, not to Rome! Indeed 

we are not guilty. 
Beatrice. Guilty ! Who dares talk 

of guilt ? My Lord, 
I am more innocent of parricide 
Than is a child born fatherless. . . . 

Dear mother, 
Your gentleness and patience are no 

shield 
For this keen-judging world, this two- 
edged lie, 
Which seems, but is not. What ! will 

human laws, 
Rather will ye who are their ministers, 
Bar all access to retribution first, 
And then, when Heaven doth inter- 

po.se to do 
What ye neglect, arming familiar 

things 
To the redress of an unwonted crime. 
Make ye the A^ictims who demanded it 
Culprits ? 'T is ye are culprits ! That 

poor wretch 
Who stands so pale, and trembling, 

and amazed, 
If it be true he murdered Cenci, was 
A sword in the right hand of justest 

God. 
AVherefore should I have wielded it ? 

Unless 
The crimes which mortal tongue dare 

never name 
God therefore scruples to avenge. 

Savella. You own 

That you desired his death ? 

Beatrice. It would have been 

A crime no less than his, if for one 

moment 
That fierce desire had faded in my 

heart. 
'T is true I did believe, and hope, and 

Pi-ay, 
Ay, I even knew . . . for God is wise 

and just, 
That some strange sudden death hung 

over him. 
'T is true that this did happen, and 

most true 
There was no other rest for me on 

earth. 
No other hope in Heaven . . . now 

what of this ? 
Savella. Strange thoughts beget 

strange deeds ; and here are 

both : 
I judge thee not. 
Bc<itricc. And yet, if you arrest 

me, 



j You are the judge and executioner 

Of that which is the life of life : the 
breath 

Of accusation kills an innocent name, 

And leaves for lame acquittal the poor 
life 

Which is a mask without it. 'T is ; 
most false 

That I am guilty of foul parricide ; 

Although I must rejoice, for justest 
cause, 

That other hands have sent my father's 
soul 

To ask the mercy he denied to me. 

Now leave us free ; stain not a noble 
house 

With vague surmises of rejected 
crime ; 

Add to our sufferings and your own 
neglect 

No heavier sum : let them have been 
enough : 

Leave us the wreck we have. 
Savella. I dare not. Lady. 

I pray that you prepare yourselves for 
Rome : 

There the Pope's further pleasure will 
be known. 
Lucretia. O, not to Rome! O, take 

us not to Rome ! 
Beatrice. Why not to Rome, dear 
mother V There as here 

Our innocence is as an armed heel 

To trample accusation. God is there 

As here, and with his shadow ever 
clothes 

The innocent, the injured and the weak; 

And such are we. Cheer up, dear 
Lady, lean 

On me ; collect your wandering 
thoughts. My Lord, 

As soon as you have taken some re- 
freshment. 

And had all such examinations made 

Upon the spot, as may be necessary 

To the full understanding of this mat- 
ter, 

We shall be ready. Mother ; will you 
come? 
Lucrctia. Ha ! they will bind us to 
the rack, and wrest 

Self-accusation from our agony ! 

Will Giacomo be there ? Orsino ? 
Marzio ? 

All present ; all confronted ; all de- 
manding 

Each from the other's countenance the 
thing 

Which is in every heart ! O, misery 1 
[She faints, and is borne out. 
Savella. She faints : an ill appear- 
ance thi,s. 



THE CENCl. 



241 



Beatrice. My Lord, 

She knows not yet the uses of the 
world. 

She fears that power is as a beast 
which grasps 

And loosens not : a snake whose look 
transmutes 

All things to guilt which is its nutri- 
ment. 

She cannot know how well the supine 
slaves 

Of blind authority read the truth of 
things 

When written on a brow of guileless- 
ness ; 

She sees not yet triumphant Innocence 

Stand at the judgment-seat of mortal 
man, 

A judge and an accuser of the wrong 

Which drags it there. Prepare your- 
self, my Lord ; 

Our suite will join yours in the court 
below. [Exeunt. 

END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 

ACT V. 

SCENE I.— An Apartment in Or- 
siNO's Palace. Enter Orsino and 

GlACOMO. 

Giacomo. Do evil deeds thus 

quickly come to end ? 
0, that the vain remorse which must 

chastise 
iCrimes done, had but as loud a voice to 

warn 
As its keen sting is mortal to avenge ! 
3, that the hour when present had cast 

off 
The mantle of its mystery, and shone 
The ghastly form with which it now 

returns 

When its scared game is roused, cheer- 
ing the hounds 
Df conscience to their prey ! Alas ! 

Alas ! 
[t was a wicked thought, a piteous 

deed, 

To kill an old and hoary -headed father. 
Orsino. It has turned out unluckily, 

in truth. 
Giacomo. To violate the sacred 

doors of sleep ; 
To cheat kind nature of the placid 

death 
Which she prepares for overwearied 

age ; 
To drag from Heaven an unrepentant 

soul 
f hich might have quencht in recon- 
ciling prayers 

i6 



A life of burning crimes . . . 
Omino. You cannot say 

I urged you to the deed. 
Giacomo. O, had I never 

Found in thy smooth and ready coun- 
tenance 

The mirror of my darkest thoughts ; 
hadst thou 

Never with hints and questions made 
me look 

Upon the monster of my thought ; 
until 

It grew familiar to desire . . . 
Orsino. 'T is thus 

Men cast the blame of their unprosper- 
ous acts 

Upon the abettors of their own re- 
solve ; 

Or anything but their weak, guilty 
selves. 

And yet, confess the truth, it is the 
peril 

In which you stand that gives you this 
pale sickness 

Of penitence ; confess 't is fear dis- 
guised 

From its own shame that takes the 
mantle now 

Of thin remorse. What if we yet were 
safe ? 
Giacomo. How can that be ? Al- 
ready Beatrice, 

Lucretia and the murderer are in 
prison. 

I doubt not officers are, whilst we 
speak, 

Sent to arrest us. 
Orsino. I have all prepared 

For instant flight. We can escape 
even now. 

So we take fleet occasion by the hair. 
Giacomo. Rather expire in tor- 
tures, as I may. 

What ! will you cast by self-accusing 
flight 

Assured conviction upon Beatrice ? 

She, who alone in this unnatural work, 

Stands like God's angel ministered 
upon 

By fiends ; avenging such a nameless 
wrong 

As turns black parricide to piety ; 

Whilst we for basest ends ... I fear, 
Orsino, 

While I consider all your words and 
looks. 

Comparing them with your proposal 
now. 

That you must be a villain. For what 
end 

Could you engage in such a perilous 
crime. 



242 



THE CENCI. 



Training- me on with hints, and signs, 

and smiles, 
Even to this gulf ? Thou art no liar ? 

No, 
Thou art a lie ! Traitor and murderer ! 
Coward and slave ! But, no, defend 

thyself ; [Draiving. 

Let the sword speak what the indig- 
nant tongue 
Disdains to brand thee with. 

Or^iino. Put up your weapon. 

Is it the desperation of your fear 
Makes you thus rash and sudden with 

a friend, 
Now ruined for your sake ? If honest 

anger 
Have moved you, know that what I 

just proposed 
Was but to try you. As for me, I 

think. 
Thankless affection led me to this 

point, 
From which, if my firm temper could 

repent, 
I cannot now recede. Even whilst we 

spe.ik 
The ministers of justice wait below : 
They grant me these brief moments. 

Now if you 
Have any word of melancholy comfort 
To speak to your pale wife, 'twere best 

to pass 
Out at the postern, and avoid them 

so. 
Glacomo. O, generous friend ! 

How canst thou pardon me ? 
Would that my life could purchase 

thine ! 
Orsino. That wish 

Now comes as a day too late. Haste ; 

fare thee well ! 
Hear'st thou not steps along the 

corridor ? 

[Exit GiACOMO. 
I'm sorry for it ; but the guards are 

waiting 
At his own gate, and such was my con- 
trivance 
That I might rid me both of him and 

them. 
I thought to act a solemn comedy 
Upon the painted scene of this new 

world, 
And to attain my own peculiar ends 
By some such plot of mingled good and 

ill 
As others weave ; but there arose a 

Power 
Which graspt and snapt the threads of 

my device 
And turned it to a net of ruin . . . Ha! 
[A shout is heard. 



Is that my name I hear proclaimed 
abroad ? 

But I will pass, wrapt in a vile dis- 
guise ; 

Rags on my back, and a false inno- 
cence 

Upon my face, thro' tiie misdeeming 
crowd 

Which judges by what seems. 'T is 
easy then 

For a new name and for a country new, 

And a new life, fashioned on old desires, 

To change the honors of abandoned 
Rome. 

And these must be the masks of that 
within, 

Which must remain unaltered . . . Oh, 
I fear 

That what is past will never let me 
rest ! 

Why, when none else is conscious, but 
myself, 

Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's ; 
contempt 

Trouble me ? Have I not the power to > 

fly 

My own reproaches V Shall I be the ■ 
slave 

Of . . . what ? A word ? which those ; 
of this false world 

Employ against each other, not them- 
selves ; 

As men wear daggers not for self- 
offence. 

But if I am mistaken, where shall I 

Find the disguise to hide me from my- 
self, 

As now I skulk from every other eye ?i 

[ Exit. I 

SCENE II.— A Hall of Justice.. 
Camillo, Judges, etc., are discov-\ 
ercd seated; Marzio is led in. 

First Judge. Accused, do you per-j 
sist in your denial ? 
I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty ? 
I dem'and who were the participators 
In your offence ? Speak truth and the 
whole truth. ; 

Marzin. My God ! I did not kill 
him ; I know nothing ; 
Olimpio sold the robe to me from which 
You would infer my guilt. 
Second Judge. Away with him 1 ' 

First Judge. Dare you, with lips yet 
white from the rack's kiss 
Speak false ? Is it so soft a questioner, 
That you would bandy lovers' talk with 

it 
Till it wind out your life and soul ? 
Away ! 



THE CENCT. 



24r 



Marzio. Spare me ! O, spare ! I 

will confess. 
First Judge. Then speak. 

Marzio. I strangled him in his sleep. 
Firtit Judge. Who urged you to it ? 
Marzio. His own son, Giacomo, and 
the young prelate 
Orsino sent me to Petrella ; there 
The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia 
Tempted me with a thousand crowns, 

and I 
And my companion forthwith mur- 
dered him. 
Now let me die. 
First Judge. This sounds as bad as 
truth. Guards, there, 
Lead forth the prisoner ! 
Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and 
Giacomo, guarded. 

Look upon this man ; 
When did you see him last ? 
Beatrice. We never saw him. 
Marzio. You know me too well. 

Lady Beatrice. 
Beatrice. I know thee ! How ? 

where ? when ? 
Marzio. You know 'twas I 

Whom you did urge with menaces and 

bribes 
To kill your father. When the thing 

was done 
You clothed me in a robe of woven gold 
And bade me thrive : how I have 

thriven, you see. 
You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, 
You know that what I speak is true. 
[ Beatrice ddi^nnces toivnrd.s him ; 
he covers his face, and shri}iJ\S 
back. 

0, dart 
The terrible resentment of those eyes 
On the dead earth ! Turn them away 

from me ! 
They wound : 't was torture forced the 

truth. My Lords, 
Having said this let me be led to death. 
Beatrice. Poor wretch, I pity thee : 

yet stay awhile. 
Camillo. Guards, lead him not 

away. 
Beatrice. Cardinal Camillo, 

You have a good repute for gentleness 
And wisdom : can it be that you sit 

here 
To countenance a wicked farce like 

this? 
When some obscure and trembling 

slave is dragged 
From sufferings, which might shake 

the sternest heart 
And bade to answer, not as he believes. 
But as those may suspect or do desire 



Whose questions thence suggest their 
own reply : 

And that in peril of such hideous tor- 
ments 

As merciful Grod spares even the 
damned. Speak now 

The thing you surely know, which is 
that you, 

If your tine frame were stretched upon 
that wheel. 

And you were told : " Confess that you 
did poison 

Your little nephew ; that fair blue- 
eyed child 

Who was the lodestar of your life : " — 
and tho' 

All see, since his most swift and piteous 
death. 

That day and night, and heaven and 
earth, and time, 

And all the things hoped for or done 
therein 

Are changed to you, thro' your exceed- 
ing grief, 

Yet you would say, "I confess any- 
thing : " 

And beg from your tormentors, like 
that slave, 

The refuge of dishonorable death. 

I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert 

My innocence. 
Camillo (muchmoved). Whatshall 
we think, my Lords ? 

Shame on these tears ! I thought the 
heart was frozen 

Which is their fountain. I would 
pledge my soul 

That she is guiltless. 
Judge. Yet she must be tortured. 
Camillo. I would as .soon have tor- 
tured mine own nephew 

(If he now lived he would be just her 
age ; 

His hair, too, was her color, and his 
eyes 

Like hers in shape, but blue and not ,so 
deep) 

As that most perfect image of God's 
love 

That ever came sorrowing upon the 
earth. 

She is as pure as speechless infancy ! 
Judge. Well, be her purity on your 
head, my Lord, 

If you forbid the rack. His Holiness 

Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous 
crime 

By the severest forms of law ; nay even 

To stretch a point against the crimi- 
nals. 

The prisoners stand accused of parri- 
cide 



244 



THE CENCr. 



Upon such evidence as justifies 
Torture. 
Beatrice. What evidence ? This 

man's ? 
Judge. Even so. 

Beatrice (to Marzio). Come near. 

And who art thou thus chosen 

forth 
Out of the multitude of living men 
To kill the innocent ? 

Marzio. I am Marzio, 

Thy father's vassal. 

Beatrice. Fix thine eyes on mine ; 
Answer to what I ask. 

[Turning to the Judges. 

I prithee mark 

His countenance : unlike bold calumny 

Which sometimes dares not speak the 

thing it looks, 
He dares not look the thing he speaks, 

but bends 
His gaze on the blind earth. 

(2'o Marzio.) What ! wilt thou say 
That I did murder my own father ? 

Marzio. Oh ! 

Spare me! My brain swims round . . . 

I cannot speak . . . 
It was that horrid torture forced the 

truth. 
Take me away ! Let her not look on 

me ! 
I am a guilty miserable wretch ; 
I have said all I know ; now let me die ! 
Beatrice. My Lords, if by my nature 

I had been 
So stern, as to have planned the ci'ime 

alleged, 
Which your suspicions dictate to this 

slave, 
And the rack makes him utter, do you 

think 
I should have left this two-edged instru- 
ment 
Of my misdeed ; this man, this bloody 

knife 
With mv own name engraven on the 

heft. 
Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, 
For my own death ? That with such 

horrible need 
For deepest silence, I should have neg- 
lected 
So trivial a precaution, as the making 
His tomb the keeper of a secret written 
On a thief's memory ? What is his 

poor life ? 
What are a thousand lives ? A parri- 
cide 
Had trampled them like dust ; and, 

see, he lives ! 
( Turning to Marzio.) And thou . . . 
Marzio. Oh, spare me ! 



Speak to me no more ! 
That stern yet piteous look, those 

solemn tones. 
Wound worse than torture. 

(To the Judges.) I have told it all ; 

For pity's sake lead me away to death. 

CamiUo. Guards, lead him nearer 

the Lady Beatrice, 
He shrinks from her regard like au- 
tumn's leaf 
From the keen breath of the serenest 

north. 
Beatrice. O thou who tremblest on 

the giddy verge 
Of life and death, pause ere thou an- 

swerest me ; 
So mayst thou answer God with less 

dismay : 
What evil have we done thee ? I, 

alas ! 
Have lived but on this earth a few sad 

years 
And so my lot was ordered, that a 

father 
Fii'st turned the moments of awaken- 
ing life 
To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet 

hope ; and then 
Stabbed with one blow my everlasting 

soul ; 
And my untainted fame ; and even 

that peace , 
Which sleeps within the core of the 

heart's heart ; 
But the wound was not mortal ; so my 

hate 
Became the only worship I could lift 
To our great Father, who in pity and 

love. 
Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut 

him off ; 
And thus his wrong becomes my ac- 
cusation ; 
And art thou the accuser ? If thou 

hopest 
Mercy in heaven, show justice upon 

earth : 
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard 

heart. 
If thou hast done Murders, made by 

life's path 
Over the trampled laws of God and 

man. 
Rush not before thy Judge, and say : 

"My maker, 
I have done this and more ; for there 

was one 
Who was most pure and innocent on 

earth ; 
And because she endured what never 

any 
Guilty or innocent endured before : 



\ 



THE CENCI. 



245 



Because her wrongs could not be told, 
not thought ; 

Because thy hand at length did rescue 
her ; ' 

I with my words killed her and all her 
kin." 

Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay 

The reverence living in the minds of 
men 

Towards our ancient house, and stain- 
less fame ! 

Think what it is to strangle infant pity, 

Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, 

Till it become a crime to suffer. Think 

What 't is to blot with infamy and 
blood 

All that whicli shows like innocence, 
and is, 

Hear me, great God ! I swear, most 
innocent, 

So that the world lose all discrimina- 
tion 

Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of 
guilt. 

And that wliich now compels thee to 
reply 

To what I ask : Am I, or am I not 

A parricide ? 
Mnrzio. Thou art not ! 
Judge. What is this ? 

Mnrzio. I here declare those whom 
I did accuse 

Are innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty. 
Judge. Drag him away to torments; 
let them be 

Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the 
folds 

Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind 
him not 

Till he confess. 
Marzlo. Torture me as ye will : 

A keener pain has wrung a higher 
truth 

From my last breath. She is most in- 
nocent ! 

Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves 
well with me ; 

I will not give you that fine piece of 
nature 

To rend and ruin. 

\E.xlt Marzio, guarded. 
CamiUo. What say ye now, 

my Lords ? 
Judge. Let tortures strain the truth 
till it be white 

As snow thrice sifted by the frozen 
wind. 
CamiUo. Yet stained with blood. 
Judge (to Beatpjce). Know you 

this paper, Lady ? 
Beatrice. Entrap me not with ques- 
tions. Who stands here 



As my accuser y Ha ! wilt thou be he, 
Who art my judge y Accuser, witness, 

judge, 
What, all in one ? Here is Orsino's 

name ; 
Where is Orsino ? Let his eye meet 

mine. 
What means this scrawl ? Alas ! ye 

know not what, 
And therefore on the chance that it 

may be 
Some evil, will ye kill us ? 
Enter aii Officer. 
Officer. Marzio's dead. 

Judge. What did he say ■* 
Officer. Nothing. As soon as we, 
Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled 

on us, 
As one who b;iffles a deep adversary ; 
And holding his breath, died. 

Judge. There remains nothing 

But to apply the question to those pris- 
oners. 
Who yet remain stubborn. 

CamiUo. I overrule 

Further proceedinors, and in the behalf 
Of these most innocent and noble per- 
sons 
Will use my interest with the Holy 

Father. 
Judge. Let the Pope's pleasure then 

be done. Meanwhile 
Conduct these culprits each to separate 

cells ; 
And be the engines ready : for this 

night 
If the Pope's resolution be as grave. 
Pious, and just as once, I '11 wring the 

truth 
Out of those nerves and sinews, groan 

by groan. [E.reunt. 

SCENE in.— The Cell of a Prison. 
Beatrice is discovered asleep on a 
couch. Enter Bernardo. 

Bernardo. How gentlj' slumber 

rests upon her face. 
Like the last thoughts of some day 

sweetly spent 
Closing in Jiight and dreams, and so 

prolonged. 
After such torments as she bore last 

night. 
How light and soft her breathing 

comes. Ay, me ! 
Methinks that I shall never sleep again. 
But I must shake the heavenly dew of 

rest 
From this sweet folded flower, thus . . . 

wake ! awake ! 
What, sister, canst thou sleep ? 



246 



THE CBNCI, 



Beatrice {(ooaking). I was just 

dreaming 
That we were all In Paradise/ Thou 

knowest 
This cell seems like a kind of Paradise 
After our father's presence. 

Bernardo. Dear, dear sister, 

Would that thy dream were not a 

dream ! O God ! 
How shall I tell ? 
Beatrice. What wouldst thou 

tell, sweet brother ? 
Bernardo. Look not so calm and 

happy, or even whilst 
I stand considering what I have to say 
My heart will break. 
Beatrice. See now, thou 

mak'st me weep : 
How very friendless thou wouldst be, 

dear child. 
If I were dead. Say what thou hast to 

say. 
Bernardo. They have confest ; they 

could endure no more 
The tortures . . . 
Beatrice. Ha ! What was there to 

confess ? 
They nuist have told some weak and 

wicked lie 
To flatter their tormentors. Have 

they said 
That they were guilty ? O white inno- 
cence, 
That thou shouldst wear the mask of 

guilt to hide 
Thine awful and serenest countenance 
From those who know thee not ! 
Enter Judge ivith Lucuetia and. 
GiACOMO, (jueirded. 

Ignoble hearts ! 
For some brief spasms of pain, which 

are at least 
As mortal as the limbs through which 

they pass. 
Are centuries of high splendor laid in 

dust? 
And that eternal honor which should 

live 
Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame. 
Changed to a mockery and a bye-word ? 

What ! 
Will you give up these bodies to be 

dragged 
At horses' heelS; so that our hair should 

sweep 
The footsteps of the vain and senseless 

crowd, 
Who, that they may make our calamity 
Their wor.ship and their spectacle, will 

leave 
The churches and the theatres as 

void 



As their own hearts ? Shall the iight 

multitude 
Fling, at their choice, curses or faded 

pity, 
Sad funeral flowers to deck a living 

corpse. 
Upon us as we pass to pass away. 
And leave . . . what memory of our 

having been ? 
Infamy, blood, terror, despair ? O 

thou, 
Who wert a mother to the parentless. 
Kill not thy child ! Let not her wrongs 

kill thee ! 
Brother, lie down with me upon the 

rack. 
And let us each be silent as a corpse ; 
It soon will be as soft as any grave. 
'T is but the falsehood it can wring 

from fear 
Makes the rack cruel. 
Giaeomo. They will tear the 

truth 
Even from thee at last, those cruel 

pains : 
For pity's sake say thou art guilty now. 
Lucrctia. Oh, speak the truth ! 

Let us all quickly die ; 
And after death, God is our judge, not 

they ; 
He will have mercy on us. 

Bernardo. If indeed 

It can be true, say so, dear sister mine ; 
And then the Pope will surely pardon 

you, 
And all be well. 

Judge. Confess, or I will warp 

Your limbs with such keen tor- 
tures . . . 
Beatrice. Tortures ! Turn 

The rack henceforth into a spinning 

wheel ! 
Torture your dog, that he may tell 

when last 
He lapt the blood his master shed . . . 

not me ! 
My pangs are of the mind, and of the 

heart. 
And of the soul ; ay, of the inmost 

soul. 
Which weeps within tears as of burn- 
ing gall 
To see, in this ill world where none are 

true. 
My kindred false to their deserted 

selves ; 
And with considering all the wretched 

life 
Which I have lived, and its now 

wretched end, 
And the small justice shown by Heav- 
en and Earth 



\ 



THE CENCl. 



247 



To me or mine ; and what a tyrant 

thou art, 
And wliat slaves these ; and what a 

world we make, 
The oppressor and the opprest . . . 

such pangs compel 
My answer. What is it thou wouldst 

with me ? 
Judge. Art thou not guilty of thy 

father's death ? 
Beatrice. Or wilt thou rather tax 

high judging God 
That he permitted such an act as that 
Which I have suffered, and which he 

beheld ; 
Made it unutterable, and took from 

it 

All refuge, all revenge, all conse- 
quence, 
But that which thou hast called my 

father's death ? 
Which is or is not what men call a 

crime, 
Which either I have done, or have not 

done ; 
Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. 
If ye desire it thus, thus let it be, 
And so an end of all. Now do your 

will ; 
No other pains shall force another word. 
Judije. She is convicted, but has not 

contest. 
Be it enough. Until their final sen- 
tence 
Let none have converse with them. 

You, young Lord, 
Linger not here ! 
Beatrice. Oh, tear him not away ! 
Judge. Guards, do your duty. 
Bernardo {embrncing Beatrice). 
Oh ! would ye divide 
Body from soul ? 
Officer. That is the headsman's 

business. 

[Exeunt all but LuCRETiA, 

Beatrice, and Giacomo. 

Oiacomo. Have I confest ? Is it 

all over now V 
No hope ! No refuge ! O weak, wicked 

tongue 
Which hast destroyed me, would that 

thou hadst been 
Cut out and thrown to dogs first ! To 

have killed 
My father first, and then betrayed my 

sister ; 
Ay, thee ! the one thing innocent and 

pure 
In this black guilty world, to that 

which I 
So well deserve 1 My wife ! my little 

ones ! 



Destitute, helpless, and I . . . Father ! 
God ! 

Canst thou forgive even the unforgiv- 
ing, 

When their full hearts break thus, 
thus ! . . . 

[Covers his face and, weeps. 
Lncretia. ' O my child ! 

To what a dreadful end are we all 
come ! 

Why did I yield ? Why did I not sus- 
tain 

Those torments ? Oh, that I were all 
dissolved 

Into these fast and unavailing tears, 

Which flow and feel not ! 
Beatrice. What 't was weak to do, 

'T is weaker to lament, once being 
done ; 

Take cheer ! The God who knew my 
wrong, and made 

Our speedy act the angel of his wrath. 

Seems, and but seems, to have aban- 
doned us. 

Let us not think that we shall die for 
this. 

Brother, sit near me ; give me your 
firm hand, 

You had a manly heart. Bear up ! 
Bear up ! 

O dearest Lady, put your gentle head 

Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile : 

Your eyes look pale, hollow and over- 
worn. 

With heaviness of watching and slow 
grief. 

Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy 
tune. 

Not cheerful, nor yet sad ; some dull 
old thing. 

Some outworn and unused monotony. 

Such as our country gossips sing and 
spin. 

Till they almost forget they live : lie 
down ! 

So, that will do. Have I forgot the 
words ? 

Faith ! They are sadder than I thought 
they were. 

SONG. 

False friend, wilt thou smile or weep 
When my life is laid asleep ? 
Little cares for a smile or a tear. 
The clay-cold corpse upon the bier 1 

Farewell ! Heigho ! 

What is this whispers low ? 
There is a snake in thy smile, my dear ; 
And bitter poison within thy tear. 

Sweet sleep, were death like to thee, 
) Or if thou couldst mortal be, 



248 



THE CENCI. 



I would close these eyes of pain ; 
When to wake ? Never again. 

O World : Farewell ! 

Listen to the passing bell ! 
It says, though I must part, 
With a light and a heavy heart. 

\TJic scene clof^es. 

SCENE IV.— A Hall of the Prison. 
Enter Camillo and Bernardo. 

Camillo. The Pope is stern ; not to 
be moved or bent. 

He lookt as calm and keen as is the 
engine 

Which tortures and which kills, ex- 
empt itself 

From aught that it inflicts ; a marble 
form, 

A rite, a law, a custom : not a man. 

He frowned, as if to frown had been 
the trick 

Of his machinery, on the advocates 

Presenting the defences, which he tore 

And threw behind, muttering with 
hoarse, harsh voice : 

" Which among ye defended their old 
father 

Killed in his sleep ? " Then to another : 
"Thou 

Dost this in virtue of thy place ; 't is 
well." 

He turned to me then, looking depreca- 
tion. 

And .said these three words, coldly : 
" They must die." 
Bcrndrdo. And vet vou left him 

not ? 
CamiUo. I urged him still ; 

Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish 
wrong 

Which prompted your unnatural par- 
ent's death. 

And he replied : " Paolo Santa Croce 

Murdered his mother ycster evening. 

And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife 

That soon, for some just cause no 
doubt, the young 

Will strangle us all, dozing in our 
chairs. 

Authority, and power, and hoary hair 

Are grown crime capital. You are my 
my nephew. 

You come to ask their pardon ; stay a 
moment ; 

Here is their sentence*, never see me 
more 

Till, to the letter, it be all fulfllled." 
Bernardo. O God, not so ! I did be- 
lieve indeed 

That all you said was but sad prepara- 
tion 



' For happy news. Oh, there are words 

and looks 
To bend the sternest purpose ! Once I 

knew them, 
Now I forget them at my deiirest need. 
What think you if I seek him out, and 

bathe 
His feet and robe with hoc and bitter 

tears ? 
Importune him with prayers, vexing 

his brain 
With my perpetual cries, until in rage 
He strike me with his pastoral cross, 

and trample 
Upon my prostrate head, so that my 

blood 
May stain the senseless dust on which 

he treads, 

And remorse waken mercy? I will do it ! 

Oh, wait till I return ! [Rushes out. 

Cainillo. Alas ! poor boy ! 

A wreck-devoted seaman thus might 

pray 
To the deaf sea. 
Enter Licretia, Beatrice, and 

GiAcoMO, [inarded. 
Beatrice. I hardly dare to fear 

That thou bring'st other news than a 

just pardon. 
Camillo. May God in heaven be 

less inexorable 
To the Pope's prayers, than he has been 

to mine. 
Here is the sentence and the warrant. 

Beatrice {wildly}. 
O my God ! Can it be possible I have 
To die so suddenly ? So young to go 
Under the obscure, cold, rotting, 

wormy, ground ! 
To be nailed down into a narrow place ; 
To see no more sweet sunshine ; hear 

no more 
Blithe voice of living thing ; muse not 

again 
Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus 

lost^ 
How fearful ! to be nothing ! Or to 

be . . . 
What ? Oh, where am I ? Let me not 

go mad ! 
Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts ! 

If there should be 
No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the 

void world ; 
The wide, gray, lampless, deep, un- 
peopled world ! 
If all things then should be . . . my 

father's spirit, 
His eye, his voice, his touch surround- 
ing me ; 
The atmosphere and breath of my dead 

life ! 



\ 



THE CENCI. 



249 



If sometimes, as a shape more like him- 
self, 
Even the form which tortured me on 

earth, 
Maskt in gray hairs and wrinkles, he 

should come 
And wind me in his hellish arms, and 

fix 
His eye on mine, and drag me down, 

down, down ! 
For was he not alone omnipotent 
On Earth, and ever present ? Even 

tho' dead. 
Does not his spirit live in all that 

breathe, 
And work for me and mine still the 

same ruin. 
Scorn, pain, despair ? Who ever yet 

returned 
To teach the laws of death's untrodden 

realm ? 
Unjust perhaps as those which drive 

us now, 
Oh, whither, whither ? 
Lucrctia. Trust in God's sweet 

love. 
The tender promises of Christ : ere 

night. 
Think, we shall be in Paradise. 

Beatrice. 'T is past ! 

Whatever comes my heart shall sink 

no more. 
And yet, I know not why, your words 

strike chill : 
How tedious, false and cold seem all 

things. I 
Have met with much injustice in this 

world ; 
No difference has been made by God 

or man, 
Or any power moulding my wretched 

lot, 
'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. 
I am cut off from the only world I 

know, 
From light, and life, and love, in 

youth's sweet prime. 
You do well telling me to trust in God, 
I hope I do trust in him. In whom 

else 
Can any trust ? And yet my heart is 

cold. 

\ During the latter speeches Giacomo 
has retired conversing with 
Camillo, who 710W goes out; 
Giacomo advances. 

Giacomo. Know you not. Mother 
. . . Sister know you not? 
Bernardo even now is gone to implore 
The Pope to grant our pardon. 

Lucretia. Child, perhaps 



It will be granted. We may all then 

live 
To make these woes a tale for distant 

years : 
Oh, what a thought ! It gushes to my 

heart 
Like the warm blood. 
Beatrice. Yet both will soon 

be cold. 
Oh, trample out that thought ! Worse 

than despair. 
Worse than the bitterness of death, is 

hope : 
It is the only ill which can find place 
Upon the giddy, sharp and narrow 

hour 
Tottering beneath us. Plead with the 

swift frost 
That it should spare the eldest flower 

of spring : 
Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er 

whose couch 
Even now a city stands, strong, fair, 

and free : 
Now stench and blackness yawn, like 

death. Oh, plead 
With famine, or wind-walking Pesti- 
lence, 
Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not 

with man ! 
Cruel, cold, formal man ; righteous in 

words, 
In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must 

die ; 
Since such is the reward of innocent 

lives ; 
Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. 
And whilst our murderers live, and 

hard, cold men, 
Smiling and slow, walk thro" ;i world 

of tears 
To death as to life's sleep ; 't were just 

the grave 
Were some strange joy for us. Come, 

obscure Death, 
And wind me in thine all-embracing 

arms ! 
Like a fond mother hide me in thy 

bosom. 
And rock me to the sleep from which 

none wake. 
Live ye, who live, subject to one an- 
other 
As we were once, who now . . . 

[Bernardo rai^hesiii. 

Bernardo. Oh, horrible, 

That tears, that looks, that hope poured 

forth in prayer. 
Even till the heart is vacant and de- 
spairs. 
Should all be vain ! The ministers of 

death 



250 



THE CENCI. 



Are waiting round the doors. I 

thouglit I saw 
Blood on the face of one . . . What if 

't were fancy ? 
Soon the heart's blood of all I love on 

earth 
Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it 

off 
As if 't were only rain. O life ! O 

world ! 
Covei" me ! let me be no more ! To see 
That perfect mirror of pure innocence 
Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and 

good, 
Shivered to dust ! To see thee, Be- 
atrice, 
Who made all lovely thou didst look 

upon . . . 
Thee, light of life . . . dead, dark ! 

while I say, sister, 
To hear I have no sister ; and thou, 

Mother, 
Whose love was as a bond to all our 

loves . . . 
Dead ! The sweet bond broken ! 

Enter Camillo and Guards. 

They come ! Let me 
Kiss those warm lips before their crim- 
son leaves 
Are blighted . . . white . . . cold. 

Say farewell, before 
Death chokes that gentle voice ! Oh, 

let me hear 
You speak ! 
Beatrice. Farewell, my tender 

brother. Think 
Of our sad fate with gentleness, as 

now : 
And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten 

for thee 
Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh 

despair, 



But tears and patience. One thing 

more, my child, 
For thine own sake be constant to the 

love 
Thou bearest us ; and to the faith that 

I, 
Tho' wrapt in a strange cloud of crime 

and shame, 
Lived ever holy and unstained. And 

tho' 
111 tongues shall wound me, and our 

common name 
Be as a mark stampt on thine innocent 

brow 
For men to point at as they pass, do 

thou 
Forbear, and never think a thought un- 
kind 
Of those, who perhaps love thee in 

their graves. 
So mayest thou die as I do ; fear and 

pain 
Being subdued. Farewell ! Farewell ! 

Farewell ! 
Bernardo. I cannot say, farewell ! 
Camillo. O Lady Beatrice ! 

Beatrice. Give yourself no un- 
necessary pain, 
Mv dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, 

tie 
My girdle for me, and bind up this 

hair 
In any simple knot ; ay, that does 

well. 
And yours I see is coming down. How 

often 
Have we done this for one another ; 

now 
We shall not do it any more. My 

Lord, 
We are quite ready. Well, 't is very 

well. 



THE END. 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY. 



151 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY. 



WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MASSACRE AT MANCHESTER. 



As I lay asleep in Italy 
There came a voice from over the Sea, 
And with great power it forth led me 
To walk in the visions of Poesy. 



I met Murder on the way — 
He had a mask like Castlereagh— 
Very smooth lie looked, yet grim ; 
Seven blood-hounds followed him : 



All were fat ; and well they might 

Be in admirable plight, 

For one by one, and two by two, 

He tossed them human hearts to chew 

Which from his wide cloak he drew. 

IV. 

Next came Fraud, and he had on, 
Like Eldon, an ermined gown ; 
His big tears, for he wept well, 
Turned to mill-stones as they fell. 



And the little children, who 

Round his feet played to and fi'o, 

Thinking every tear a gem. 

Had their brains knocked out by them. 



Clothed with the Bible, as with light, 
And the shadows of the night, 
IJke Sidmouth, next. Hypocrisy 
On a crockodile rode by. 



And many more Destructions played 
In this ghastly masquerade. 
All disguised, even to the eyes, 
Like bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies. 



Last came Anarchy : he rode 
On a white horse, splasht with blood ; 
He was pale even to the lips, 
Like Death in the Apocalypse. 



And he wore a kingly crown ; 
And in his grasp a sceptre shone ; 
On his brow this mark I saw— 
"I Am God, and King, and Law ! 



With a pace stately and fast, 
Over English land he past. 
Trampling to a mire of blood 
The adoring multitude. 

XI. 

And a mighty troop around. 

With their trampling shook the 

ground. 
Waving each a bloody sword. 
For the service of their Lord. 

XII. 

And with glorious triumph, they 
Rode thro' England proud and gay. 
Drunk as with intoxication 
Of the wine of desolation. 



O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea, 
Past the Pageant swift and free, 
Tearing up, and trampling down ; 
Till they came to London town. 



And each dweller, panic-stricken, 
Felt his heart with terror sicken 
Hearing the tempestuous cry 
Of the triumph of Anarchy. 



For with pomp to meet him came. 
Clothed in arms like blood and flame. 
The hired murderers, who did sing 
" Thou art God, and Law, and King. 



" We have waited, weak and lone 

For thy coming. Mighty One ! 

Our purses are empty, our swords are 

cold, 
Give us glory, and blood, and gold," 



253 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY. 



XVII. 

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd, 
To the earth their pale brows bowed ; 
Like a bad prayer not over loud, 
Whispering— " Thou art Law and 
God." 

XVIII. 

Then all cried with one accord, 

" Thou art King, and God, and Lord ; 

Anarchy, to thee we bow, 

Be thy name made holy now ! '' 



And Anarchy, the Skeleton, 
Bowed and grinned to every one, 
As well as if his education 
Had cost ten millions to the nation. 

XX. 

For he knew the Palaces 
Of our Kings were rightly his ; 
His sceptre, crown, and globe, 
And the gold-inwoven robe. 



So he sent his slaves before 
To seize upon the Bank and Tower, 
And was proceeding with intent 
To meet his pensioned Parliament. 



When one fled past, a maniac maid. 
And her name was Hope, she said : 
But she looked more like Despair, 
And she cried out in the air : 



" My father Time is weak and gray 
With waiting for a better day ; 
See how idiot-like he stands. 
Fumbling with his palsied hands 

XXIV. 

" He has had child after child. 
And the dust of death is piled 
Over every one but me— 
Misery ! o'h. Misery ! " 

XXV. 

Then she lay down in the street. 
Right before the horses' feet. 
Expecting, with a patient eye, 
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy. 



When between her and her foes 
A mist, a light, an image rose. 
Small at first, and weak, and frail 
Like the vapor of a vale : 



Till as clouds grow on the blast, 

Like tower-crowned giants striding] 

fast. 
And glare with lightnings as they fly, 
And speak in thunder to the sky, 



It grew— a Shape arrayed in mail 
Brighter than the viper's scale. 
And upborne on wings whose grain 
Was as the light of sunny rain. 



On its helm, seen far away, 
A planet, like the Morning's, lay ; 
And those plumes its light rained thro'i 
Like a shower of crimson dew. 



With step as soft as wind is past 
O'er the heads of men — so fast 
That they knew the presence thei'e, 
And look't,— and all was empty air. 



XXXI. 



As 



flowers beneath May's footstep 

waken, 
As stars from Night's loose hair are 

shaken. 
As waves arise when loud winds call,! 
Thoughts sprung where'er that stepi 

did fall. 



And the prostrate multitude 
Lookt— and ankle-deep in blood, 
Hope, that maiden most serene, 
Was walking with a quiet mien : 



And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, 
Lay dead earth upon the earth ; 
The Horse of Death tameless as wind 
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind 
To dust the murderers thronged be- 
hind. 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY. 



253 



XXXTV. 

A rushing light of clouds and splendor, 
A sense awakening and yet tender 
Was heard and felt— and at its close 
These words of joy and fear arose 

XXXV. 

As if their own indignant Earth 
Which gave the sons of England birth 
Had felt their blood upon her brow, 
And shuddering with a mother's throe 

XXXVI. 

Had turned every drop of blood 
By which her face had been bedewed 
To an accent unwithstood,— 
As if her heart had cried aloud : 

XXXVII. 

" Men of England, heirs of Glory, 
Heroes of unwritten story, 
Nurslings of one mighty Mother, 
Hopes of her, and one another; 

XXXVIII. 

" Rise like Lions after slumber 
In unvanquishable number, 
Shake your chains to earth like dew 
Which'in sleep had fallen on you— 
Ye are many— they are few. 

XXXIX. 

" What is freedom ?— Ye can tell 
That which slavery is, too well— 
For its very name has grown 
To an echo of your own. 



" 'T is to work and have such pay 
As just keeps life from day to day 
In your limbs, as in a cell 
For the tyrants' use to dwell. 

XLI. 

" So that ye for them are made 
Loom, and plough, and sword, and 

spade. 
With or without your own will bent 
To their defence and nourishment. 



'"T is to see your children weak 
With their mothers pine and peak. 
When the winter winds are bleak,— 
They are dying whilst I speak. 



" 'T is to hunger for such diet 
As the rich man in his riot 
Casts to the fat dogs that lie 
Surfeiting beneath his eye ; 



" 'T is to let the Ghost of Gold 
Take from Toil a thousandfold 
More than e'er its substance could 
In the tyrannies of old. 



" Paper coin— that forgery 
Of the title deeds, which ye 
Hold to something of the worth 
Of the inheritance of Earth. 



" 'T is to be a slave in soul 
And to hold no strong control 
Over your own wills, but be 
All that others make of ye. 

XLVII. 

"And at length when ye complain 
With a murmur weak and vain, 
'T is to see the Tyrant's crew 
Ride over your wives and you — 
Blood is on the grass like dew. 

XLVIII. 

" Then it is to feel revenge 

Fiercely thirsting to exchange 

Blood for blood— and wrong for 

wrong — 
Do not thus when ye are strong. 

XLIX. 

"Birds find rest, in narrow nest 
When weary of their winged quest ; 
Beasts find fare, in woody lair 
When storm and snow are in the air. ' 



" Asses, swine, have litter spread 
And with fitting food are fed ; 
All things have a home but one— 
Thou, O Englishman, hast none ! 

1 The following Stanza originally intended 
to come between Stanzas xlix. and l. was 
rejected : 

" Horses, oxen, have a home. 
When from daily toil they come ; 
Household dogs, when the wind roars. 
Find a home within warm doors." 



204 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY. 



LI. 

'' This is Slavei'y — savage men, 
Or wild beasts within a den 
Would endure not as ye do— 
But such ills they never knew. 

LII. 

" What art thou Freedom ? Oh 1 could 

slaves 
Answer from their living graves 
This demand— tyrants would flee 
Like a dream's dim imagery : 

LIII. 

" Thou art not, as impostors say, 
A shadow soon to pass away, 
A superstition, and a name 
Echoing from the cave of Fame. 

LIV. 

" For the laborer thou art bread, 
And a comely table spread 
From his daily labor come 
To a neat and happy home. 

LV. 

" Thou art clothes, and fire, and food 
For tiic trampled multitude— 
No— in countries that are free 
Such starvation cannot be 
As in England now we see. 

LVI. 

" To the rich thou art a check ; 
When his foot is on the neck 
Of his victim, thou dost make 
That he treads upon a snake. 



" Thou a"t Justice— ne'er for gold 
May thy righteous laws be sold 
As laws are in England— thou 
Shield'st alike the high and low 

LVIII. 

" Thou art Wisdom — Freemen never 
Dream that God will damn for ever 
All who think those things untrue 
Of which Priests make such ado. 

LIX. 

" Thou art Peace— never by thee 
Would blood and treasure wasted be 
As tyrants wasted them, when all 
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul. 



" What if English toil and blood 
Was poured forth, even as a flood ? 
It availed, O Liberty, 
To dim, but not extinguish thee. 

LXI. 

" Thou art Love— the rich have kist 
Thy feet, and like him following Christ 
Give their substance to the free 
And thro' the rough world follow thee, 

LXII. 

"Or turn their wealth to arms, and 

make 
War for thy beloved sake 
On wealth, and war, and fraud — 

whence they 
Drew the power which is their prey. 

LXIII. 

" Science, Poetry, and Thought 
Are thy lamps ; they make the lot 
Of the dwellers in a cot 
So serene, they curse it not. 



"Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, 

All that can adorn and bless 

Art thou— let deeds not words express ^ 

Thine exceeding loveliness. 



" Let a great Assembly be 
Of the fearless and the free 
On some spot of English ground 
Where the plains stretch wide around. 



" Let the blue sky overhead. 
The green earth on which ye tread, 
All that must eternal be 
Witness the solemnity. 

LXVII. 

" From the corners uttermost 
Of the bounds of English coast ; 
From every hut, village, and town 
Where those who live and suffer moan 
For others' misery or their own, 

LXVIII. 

" From the workhouse and the prison 
Where pale as corpses newly risen. 
Women, children, young and old 
Groan for pain, and weep for cold— 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY. 



^iOO 



LXIX. 

" From the haunts of daily life 
Where is waged the daily strife 
With common wants and common 

cares 
Which sows the human heart with 

tares — 

LXX. 

" Lastly from the palaces 
Where the murmur of distress 
Echoes, like the distant sound 
Of a wind alive, around 



" Those prison halls of wealth and 

fashion 

Where some few feel such compassion 
For those who groan, and toil, and wail 
As must make their brethren pale — 



" Ye who suffer woes untold, 
Or to feel, or to behold 
Your lost country bought and sold 
With a price of blood and gold— 



" Let a vast assembly be. 
And with great solemnity 
Declare with measured words that ye 
Are, as God has made ye, free— 

LXXIV. 

" Be your strong and simple words 
Keen to wound as sharpened swords, 
And wide as targes let them be, 
With their shade to cover ye. 



" Let the tyrants pour around 
With a quick and startling sound, 
Like the loosening of a sea, 
Troops of armed emblazonry. 



" Let the charged artillery drive 
Till the dead air seems alive 
With the clash of clanging wheels, 
And the tramp of horses' heels. 

LXXVII. 

" Let the fixed bayonet 
Gleam with sharp desire to wet 
Its bright point in English blood 
Looking keen as one for food. 



" Let the horsemen's scymitars 
Wheel and flash, like sp'hereless stars 
Thirsting to eclipse their burning 
In a sea of death and mourning. 



" Stand ye calm and resolute, 

Like a forest close and mute, 

With folded arms and looks which are 

Weapons of unvanquisht war, 

LXXX. 

" And let Panic, who outspeeds 
The career of armed steeds 
Pass, a disregai-ded shade 
Thro' your phalanx undismayed. 



" Let the laws of your own land, 
Good or ill, between ye stand 
Hand to hand, and foot to foot, 
Arbiters of the dispute :— 



" The old laws of England— they 
Whose reverend heads with age are 

gray. 
Children of a wiser day ; 
And whose solemn voice must be 
Thine own echo— Liberty ! 

LXXXIII. 

"On those who first should violate 
Such sacred heralds in their state 
Rest the blood that must ensue, 
And it will not rest on you. 



" And if then the tyrants dare 
Let them ride among you there, 
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew,- 
What they like, that let them do. 



" With folded arms and steady eyes, 
And little fear, and less surprise 
Look upon them as they slay 
Till their rage has died away. 

LXXXVI. 

"Then they will return with shame 
To the place from which they came, 
And the blood thus shed will speak 
In hot blushes on their cheek. 



256 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



" Every woman in the land 
Will point at them as they stand. 
They will hardly dare to greet 
Their acquaintance in the street. 

LXXXVIII. 

"And the bold, true warriors 
Who have hugged Danger in the wars 
Will tiivn to those who would be free 
Ashamed of such base company. 

LXXXIX. 

" And that slaughter to the Nation 
Shall steam up like inspiration, 
Eloquent, oracular ; 
A volcano heard afar. 

xc. 

" And these words shall then become 
Like oppression's thundered doom 
Ringing thro' each heart and brain, 
Heard again— again— again ! 

xci. 

" Rise like Lions after slumber 
In unvanquishable number- 
Shake your chains to earth like dew 
Which in sleep had fallen on you— 
Ye are many— they are few." 



NOTE ON THE MASK OF AN- 
ARCHY, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

Though Shelley's first eager desire 
to excite his countrymen to resist 
openly the oppressions existent during 
" the good old times " liad faded with 
early youth, still his warmest sym- 
pathies were for the people. He was 
a republican, and loved a democracy. 
He looked on all human beings as in- 
heritnig an equal right to possess the 
dearest privileges of our nature ; the 
necessaries of life when fairly earned 
by labor, and intellectual instruction. 
His hatred of any despotism that 
looked upon the people as not to be 
consulted, or protected from want and 
ignorance, was intens^. He was resid- 
ing near Leghorn, at Villa Valsovano, 
writing " The Cenci," when the news 
of the Manchester Massacre reached 
us ; it roused in him violent emotions 
of Indignation and compassion. The 
great truth that the many, if accordant 



and resolute, could control the few, as 
was shown some years after, made him 
long to teach his injured countrymen 
how to resist. Inspired by these feel- 
ings, he wrote the " Masque of An- 
archy," which he sent to his friend 
Leigh Hunt, to be inserted in the Ex 
amincr, of which he was then the 
editor. 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 
By Miching Mallecho, Esq. 

Is it a party in a parlor. 

Crammed just as they on earth were 

crammed. 
Some sipping punch — some sipping tea ; 
But, as you by tlieir faces see, 

All silent, ami all damned I 

Peter Bell, by W. Wordsworth. 

Ophelia. — What means this, my lord 'I 
Hamlet.— Marry, this is Miching Mallecho ; 
i*; means mischief. 

Shakespeare. 



DEDICATION 

TO THOMAS BROWN, ESQ., THE 
YOUNGER, H. F. 

Dear Tom,— Allow me to request you 
to introduce Mr. Peter Bell to the re- 
spectable family of the Fudges. Al- 
though he may fall short of those very 
considerable personages in the more 
active properties which characterize 
the Rat and the Apostate, I suspect 
that even you, their historian, will con- 
fess that he surpa.sses them in the more 
peculiarly legitimate qualification of 
intolerable dulness. 

You know Mr. Examiner Hunt ; well 
— it was he who presented me to two 
of the Mr. Bells. My intimacy with 
the j^ounger Mr. Bell naturally sprung 
from this introduction to his brothers. 
And in presenting him to you, I have 
the satisfaction of being able to assure 
you that he is considerably the dullest 
of the three. 

There is this particular advantage in 
an acquaintance with any one of the 
Peter Bells, that if you know one Peter 
Bell, you know three Peter Bells ; they 
are not one, but three ; not three, but 
one. An awful mystery, which, after 
having caused torrents of blood, and 
having been hymned by groans enough 
to deafen the music of the spheres, is 
at length illustrated to the satisfaction 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



257 



of all parties in the theological world, 
by the nature of Mr. Peter Bell. 

Peter is a polyhedric Peter, or a Peter 
with many sides. He changes colors 
like a chameleon, and his coat lilce a 
snake. He is a Proteus of a Peter. 
He was at first sublime, pathetic, im- 
pressive, profound ; then dull ; then 
prosy and dull ; and now dull— oh so 
very dull ! it is an ultra-legitimate dul- 
ness. 

You will perceive that it is not neces- 
sary to consider Hell and the Devil as 
supernatural machinery. The whole 
scene of my epic is in " this world 
which is "—so Peter informed us before 
his conversion to White Ohi— 

" The world of all of us, and where 
We find our happiness, or not at all.'" 

Let me observe that I have spent six 
or seven days in composing this sub- 
lime piece ; the orb of my moon-like 
genius has made the fourth part of its 
revolution round the dull -earth which 
you inhabit, driving you mad, while it 
has retained its calmness and its splen- 
dor, and I have been fitting this its last 
phase "to occupy a permanent station 
in the literature of my country." 

Your works, indeed, dear Tom, sell 
better ; but mine are far superior. 
The public is no judge ; posterity sets 
all to rights. 

Allow me to observe that so much 
has been written of Peter Bell, that the 
present history can be considered only, 
like the "Iliad," as a continuation of 
that series of cyclic poems, which have 
already been candidates for bestowing 
immortality upon, at the same time 
that they receive it from, his character 
and adventures. In this point of view 
I have violated no rule of syntax in be- 
ginning my composition with a con- 
junction ; the full stop which closes the 
poem continued by me being, like the 
full stops at the end of the " Iliad " and 
" Odyssey," a full stop of a very quali- 
fied import. 

Hoping that the immortality which 
you have given to the Fudges, you will 
receive from them ; and in the firm 
expectation, that when London shall 
be an habitation of bitterns ; when St. 
Paul's and Westminster Abbey shall 
stand, shapeless and nameless ruins, 
in the midst of an unpeopled marsh ; 
when the piers of Waterloo Bridge 
shall become the nuclei of islets of 
reeds and osiers, and ca.st the jagged 

17 



shadows of their broken arches on the 
solitary stream, some transatlantic 
commentator will be weighing in the 
scales of some new and now unim- 
agined system of criticism, the respect- 
ive merits of the Bells and the Fudges, 
and their historians. I remain, dear 
Tom, yours sincerely, 

MiCHING MALLECHO. 

December 1, 1819. 

P. S.— Pray excuse the date of place ; 
so soon as the profits of the publication 
come in, I mean to hire lodgings in a 
more respectable street. 



PROLOGUE. 

Peter Bells, one, two and three, 
O'er the wide world wandering be. — 
First, the antenatal Peter, 
Wrapt in weeds of the same metre, 
The so long predestined raiment 
Clothed in which to walk his way 

meant 
The second Peter ; whose ambition 
Is to link the proposition, 
As the mean of two extremes— 
(This was learnt from Aldric's themes) 
Shielding from the guilt of .schism 
The orthodoxal syllogism ; 
The First Peter— he who was 
Like the shadow in the glass 
Of the second, yet unripe. 
His substantial antitype. — 
Then came Peter Bell the Second, 
Who henceforward must be reckoned 
The body of a double soul, 
And that portion of the whole 
Without which the rest would seem 
Ends of a disjointed dream,— 
And the Third is he who has 
O'er the grave been forced to pass 
To the other side, which is,— 
Go and try else,— just like this. 

Peter Bell the First w-as Peter 
Smugger, milder, softer, neater, 
Like the soul before it is 
Born from tJiat world into this. 
The next Peter Bell was he, 
Predevote, like you and me, 
To good or evil as may come ; 
His was the severer doom,— 
For he was an evil Cotter, 
And a polygamic Potter. 
And the last is Peter Bell, 
Damned since our first parents fell, 
Damned eternally to Hell — 
Surely he deserves it well ! 



258 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



PART THE FIRST. 
DEATH. 
I. 

And Peter Bell, when he had been 
With fresh-imported Hell-fire 
warmed, 
Grew .serious— from his dress and mien 
'T was very plainly to be seen 
Peter was quite reformed. 

II. 

His eyes turned up, his mouth turned 
down ; 

His accent caught a nasal twang ; 
He oiled his hair, there might be heard 
The grace of God in every word 

Which Peter said or .sang. 



But Peter now grew old, and had 
An ill no doctor could unravel ; 
His torments almost drove him mad ; — 
8ome said it was a fever bad — 
Some swore it was the gravtl. 



His holy friends then came about. 
And with long preaching and per- 
suasion, 
Convinced the patient that, without 
The smallest shadow of a doubt. 
He was predestined to damnation. 



They said— "Thy name is Peter Bell; 

Thy skin is of a brimstone hue ; 
Alive or dead— ay, sick or well— 
The one God made to rhyme with hell ; 

The other, I think,' rhymes with 
you.'' 



Then Peter set up .such a yell !— 
The nurse, who with some water 
gruel 
Was climbing up the stairs, as well 
As her old legs could climb them— fell, 
And broke them both— the fall was 
cruel. 

VII. 

The Parson from the casement leapt 

Into the lake of Windermere— 
And many an eel,— though no adept 
In God's riglit reason for it— kept 
Gnawing his kidneys half a year. 



And all the rest rushed thro' the door, , 
And tumbled over one another, 

And broke their skulls. — Upon the: 
floor 

Meanwhile sat Peter Bell, and swore, , 
And curst his father and his mother ; : 



And raved of God, and sin, and death. 

Blaspheming like an infidel ; 
And said, that with his clenched teeth, , 
He 'd seize the earth from underneath, 
And drag it with him down to hell. 



As he was speaking came a spasm. 
And wrencht his gnashing teeth i 
asunder ; 

Like one who sees a strange phantasm i 
He lay, — there was a silent chasm 
Between his upper jaw and under. 



And yellow death lay on his face ; 

And a fixt smile that was not human i 
Told, as I understand the case. 
That he was gone to the wrongs 
place :— 

I heard all this from the old woman. 

XII. 

Then there came down from Langdale i 
Pike j 

A cloud, with lightning, wind and 
hail ; 
It swept over the mountains like 
An ocean,— and I heard it strike I 

The woods and crags of Grasmere- 
vale. 

I 

XIII. 

And I saw the black storm come 

Nearer, minute after minute ; , 

Its thunder made the cataracts dumb ; l 
With hiss, and clash, and hollow hum, 
It neared as if the Devil was in it. 1 

I 

XIV. 

The Devil was in it :— he had bought 

Peter for half-a-crown ; and when i. 
The storm which bore him vanisht, 

naught 
That in the house that storm had 
caught 
Was ever seen again, 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



359 



The gaping neighbors came next 
day— 
They found all vanisht from the 
shore : 
The Bible, whence he used to pray, 
Half scorcht under a hen-coop lay ; 
Smasht glass— and nothing more ! 



PART THE SECOND. 
THE DEVIL. 



The Devil, I safely can aver. 

Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting ; 
Nor is he, as some sages swear, 
A spirit, neither here nor there. 
In nothing— yet in everything. 

II. 

He is— what we are ; for sometimes 

The Devil is a gentleman ; 
At others a bard bartering rhymes 
For sack ; a statesman spinning 
crimes ; 

A swindler, living as he can ; 

III. 

A thief, who cometh in the night. 
With whole boots and net pant- 
aloons, 
Like some one whom it were not right 
To mention ;— or the luckless wight. 
From whom he steals nine silver 
spoons. 



But in this case he did appear 
Like a slop-merchant from Wap- 
Ping, 
And with smug face, and eye severe, 
Dn every side did perk and peer 
Till he saw Peter dead or napping. 



He had on an upper Benjamin 

(For he was of the driving schism) 
[n'the which he wrapt his skin 
Prom the storm he travelled in, 
For fear of rheumatism. 



He called the ghost out of the corse ;— 

It was exceedingly like Peter,— 
Only its voice was hollow and hoarse— 
[t had a queerish look of course- 
Its dress too was a little neater. 



The Devil knew not his name and lot ; 

Peter knew not that he was Bell : 
Each had an upper stream of thought. 
Which made all seem as it was not ; 

Fitting itself to all things well. 



Peter thought he had parents dear, 
Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies. 

In the fens of Lincolnshire ; 

He perhaps had found them there 
Had he gone and boldly shown his 



Solemn phiz in his own village ; 

Where he thought oft when a boy 
He'd climb the orchard walls to pillage 
The produce of his neighbor's tillage, 

With marvellous pride and joy. 



And the Devil thought he had. 

Mid the misery and confusion 
Of an unjust war, just made 
A fortune by the gainful trade 
Of giving soldiers rations bad — 
The world is full of strange delusion 



That he had a mansion planned 

In a square like Grosvenor Square, 
That he was aping fashion, and 
That he now came to Westmoreland 
To see what was romantic there. 

XII. 

And all this, though quite ideal,— 

Ready at a breath to vanish, — 
Was a state not more unreal 
Than the peace he could not feel. 
Or the care he could not banish. 



After a little conversation, 
The Devil told Peter, if he chose, 

He 'd bring him to the world of fashion 

By giving him a situation 
In his own service— and new clothes. 



And Peter bowed, quite pleased and 
proud. 
And after waiting some few days 
For a new livery — dirty yellow 
Turned up witii black— the wretched 
fellow 
Was bowled to Hell in the Devil's 
chaise. 



260 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



PART THE THIRD. 
HELL. 

I. 

Hell is a city much like London— 

A populous and a smoky city ; 
There are all sorts of people undone, 
And there is little or no fun done ; 
Small justice shown, and still less 
pity. 

IL 

There is a Castles, and a Canning, 

A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh ; 

All sorts of caitiff corpses planning 

All sorts of cozening for trepanning 

Corpses less corrupt than they. 



There is a * * *, who has lost 
His wits, or sold them, none knows 
which ; 
He walks about a double ghost, 
And though as thin as Fraud almost— 
Ever grows more grim and rich. 



There is a Chancery Court ; a King ; 

A manufacturing mob ; a set 
Of thieves who by themselves are sent 
Similar thieves to represent ; 

An army ; and a public debt. 



■\Vhich last is a scheme of paper money, 

And means— being interpreted— 
"Bees, keep your wax— give us the 

honey. 
And we will plant, while skies are 
sunny. 
Flowers, which in winter serve in- 
stead." 



There is a great talk of revolution — 
And a great chance of despotism — 
German soldiers — camps — confusion- 
Tumults— lotteries— rage— delusion— 
Gin— suicide— and methodism. 



Taxes too, on wine and bread, 
And meat, and beer, and tea, and 
cheese, 
From which those patriots pure are fed. 
Who gorge before they reel to bed 
The tenfold essence of all these. 



There are mincing women, mewing, 

(Like cats, who amaiit misere,) 
Of their own virtue, and pursuing 
Their gentler sisters to that ruin, 
Without which — what were chastit^■ :• 



Lawyers — judges— old hobnobbers 

Are there — bailiffs — chancellors — 
Bishops— great and little robbers- 
Rhymesters— pamphleteers— stock-job- 
bers — 
Men of glory in the wars,— 



Things whose trade is, over ladies 
To lean, and flirt, and stare, andl 
simper. 
Till all that is divine in woman 
Grows cruel, courteous, smooth, in- 
human. 
Crucified 'twixt a smile and whimper. . 



Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling. 
Frowning, preaching— such a riot ! 
Each witli never-ceasing labor, 
Whilst he thinks he cheats his neigh- 
bor. 
Cheating his own heart of quiet. 



And all these meet at levees ;— 

Dinners convivial and political ; — 
Suppers of epic poets ; — teas. 
Where small talk dies in agonies ;— 
Breakfasts professional and critical ; 

XIII. 

Lunches and snacks so aldermanic 
That one would furnish forth teni 
dinners. 
Where reigns a Cretan-tongued panic, 
Lest news Russ, Dutch, or Alemannio 
Should make some losers, and some 
winners ; — 

XIV. 

At conversazioni — balls — 

Conventicles — and drawing-rooms — 
Courts of law — committees — calls 
Of a morning— clubs— book-stalls— 

Churches — masquerades— and tombs, 

XV. 

And this is Hell— and in this smother 
All are damnable and damned i 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



2GI 



Each one damning, damns the other ; 
They are damned by one another, 
By none other are they damned. 



'T is a lie to say, " God damns ! " 
Where was Heaven's Attorney Gen- 
eral 
When they first gave out such flams 'i 
Let there be an end of shams, 
They are mines of poisonous mineral. 

XVII. 

Statesmen damn themselves to be 
Curst ; and lawyers damn their souls 

To the auction of a fee ; 

Churchmen damn themselves to see 
God's sweet love in burning coals. 

XVIII. 

The rich are damned, beyond all cure, 

To taunt, and starve, and trample on 

The weak and wretched ; and the poor 

Damn their broken hearts to endure 

Stripe on stripe, with groan on groan. 

XIX. 

Sometimes the poor are damned indeed 
To ■ take, — not means for being 
blest,— 
But Cobbett's snuff, revenge ; that 

weed 
From which the worms that it doth 
feed 
Squeeze less than thej^ before pos- 
sest. 



And some few, like we know who, 
Damned — but God alone knows 
why — 
To believe their minds are given 
To make this ugly Hell a Heaven ; 
In which faith they live and die. 



Thus, as in a town, plague-stricken, 
Each man be he sound or no 

Must indifferently sicken ; 

As when day begins to thicken, - 
None knows a pigeon from a crow,- 

XXII. 

So good and bad, sane and mad, 

The oppressor and the opprest ; 

Those who weep to see what others 

Smile to inflict upon their brothers ; 

Lovers, haters, worst and best ; 



All are damned— they breathe an air, 
Thick, infected, joy-dispelling : 

Each pursues what seems most fair, 

Mining like moles, through mind, and 
there 

Scoop palace caverns vast, where Care 
In throned state is ever dwelling. 

PART THE FOURTH. 

SIN. 
I. 

Lo, Peter in Hell's Grosvenor Square, 
A footman in the Devil's service ! 

And the misjudging world would 
swear 

That every man in service there 
To virtue would prefer vice. 



But Peter, though now damned, was 
not 

What Peter was before damnation. 
Men oftentimes prepare a lot 
Which, ere it finds them, is not what 

Suits with their genuine station. 

III. 

All things that Peter saw and felt 

Had a peculiar aspect to him ; 
And when they came within the belt 
Of his own nature, seemed to melt, 
Like cloud to cloud, into him. 

IV. 

And so the outward world uniting 
To that within him, he became 

Considerably uninviting 

To those, who meditation slighting. 
Were moulded in a different frame. 



And he scorned them, and they scorned 
him ; 
And he scorned all the}' did ; and 
they 
Did all that men of their own trim 
Are wont to do to please their whim, 
Drinking, lying, swearing, play. 

VI. 

Such were his fellow-servants ; thus 
His virtue, like our own, was built 
Too much on that indignant fuss 
Hypocrite Pride stirs up in us 
To bully one another's guilt. 



262 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



He had a mind which was somehow 
At once circumference and centre 

Of all he might or feel or know ; 

Nothing went ever out, altho' 
Something did ever enter. 



He had as much imagination 
As a pint-pot ; — he never could 

Fancy another situation, 

Froni which to dart his contemplation, 
Than that wherein he stood. 

IX. 

Yet his was individual mind, 
And new created all he saw 
In a new manner, and refined 
Those new creations, and combined 
Thep% by a master-spirit's law. 



Thus — tho' unimaginative — 

An apprehension clear, intense. 
Of his mind's work, had made alive 
The things it wrought on ; I believe 
Wakening a sort of thought in sense. 

XI. 

But from the first 't was Peter's drift 

To be a kind of moral eunuch. 
He toucht the hem of nature's shift. 
Felt faint — and never dared uplift 
The closest, all-concealing tunic. 

XII. 

She laught the while, with an arch 
smile 

And kist him with a sister's kiss, 
And said—" My best Diogenes, 
I love you well— but, if you please. 

Tempt not again my deepest bliss. 



' 'T is you are cold — for I, not coy, 
Yield love for love, frank, warm, and 

true ; 
And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy — 
His errors prove it— knew my joy 
More, learned friend, than you. 



" Bocca bacciata non pcrde ventura 
Anzl liinuiova come fa la hnia : — 
So thought Boccaccio, whose .sweet 
words might cure a 



Male prude, like you, from what you 
now endure, a 
Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant 
laguna." 



Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe, 
And smoothed his spacious forehead I 
down, 
With his broad palm ; — 'twixt love 

and fear. 
He lookt, as he no doubt felt, queer. 
And in his dream sate down. 



The Devil was no uncommon creature ; 

A leaden-witted thief — just huddled 
Out of the dross and scimi of nature ; 
A toad-like lump of limb and feature. 

With mind, and heart, and fancy 
muddled. 



He was that heavy, dull, cold thing, 
The spirit of evil well may be : 

A drone too base to have a sting ; 

Who gluts and grimes his lazy wing, 
And calls lust, luxury. 

XVIII. 

Now he was quite the kind of wight 

Round whom collect, at a fixt era. 
Venison, turtle, hock, and claret, — 
Good cheer — and those who come to 
share it— 
And best East Indian madeira ! 



It was his fancy to invite 

Men of science, wit, and learning, 
Who came to lend each other light : 
He proudly thought that his gold's 
might 

Had set those spirits burning. 



And men of learning, science, wit, 

Considered him as you and I 
Think of some rotten tree, and sit 
Lounging and dining under it, 
Exposed to the wide sky. 

XXI. 

And all the while, with loose fat smile, 
The willing wretch sat winking 
there, 
Believing 't was his power that made 
That jovial scene — and that all paid 
Homage to his unnoticed chair. 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



3G3 



XXII. 

Tho' to be sure this place was Hell ; 

He was the Devil — and all they — 
What though the claret circled well, 
And wit, like ocean, rose and fell ? — 

Were damned eternallj'. 



PART THE FIFTH. 

GRACE. 
I. 

Among the guests who often staid 

Till the Devil's petits-soupers, 
A man there came, fair as a maid, 
And Peter noted what he said. 
Standing behind his master's chair. 

11. 

He was a mighty poet — and 

A subtle-souled psychologist ; 
All things he seemed to understand, 
Of old or fiew — of sea or land- 
But his own mind — which was a 
mist. 

III. 

This was a man who might have 
turned 
Hell into Heaven — and so in gladness 
A Heaven unto himself have earned ; 
But he in shadows undiscerned 
Trusted,— and damned himself to 
madness. 

IV. 

He spoke of poetry, and how 
" Divine it was — a light — a love — 

A spirit which like wind doth blow 

As it listeth, to and fro ; 
A dew rained down from God above. 



'' A power which comes and goes like 
dream. 
And which none can ever trace — 
Heaven's light on earth — Truth's 

brightest beam." 
And when he ceased there lay the 
gleam 
Of those words upon his fate. 



Now Peter, when he heard such talk, 

Would, heedless of a broken pate. 
Stand like a man asleep, or balk 
Some wishing guest of knife or fork, 
Or drop and break his master's plate. 



At night he oft would start and wake 

Like a lover, and began 
In a wild measure songs to make 
On moor, and glen, and rocky lake. 

And on the heart of man— 

VIII. 

And on the universal sky — 

And the wide earth's bosom green,— 
And the sweet, strange mystery 
Of what beyond these things may lie. 

And yet remain unseen. 



For in his thought he visited 
The spots in which, ere dead and 
damned. 
He his wayward life had led ; 
Yet knew not whence the thoughts 
were fed. 
Which thus his fancy crammed. 



And these obscure remembrances 

Stirred such harmony in Peter, 

That whensoever he should please, 

He could speak of rocks and trees 

In poetic metre. 



For tho' it was without a sense 
Of memory, yet he remembered well 

Many a ditch and quick-set fence ; 

Of lakes he had intelligence, 
He knew something of heath and fell. 



He had also dim recollections 

Of pedlers tramping on their rounds; 
Milk-pans and pails ; and odd collec- 
tions 
Of saws, and proverbs ; and reflectioixg 
Old parsons make in burying- 
grounds. 



But Peter's verse was clear, and came 
Announcing from the frozen hearth 
Of a cold age, that none might tame 
The soul of that diviner flame 
It augured to the Earth. 

XIV. 

Like gentle rains, on the dry plains, 
Making that green which late was 
gray, 
Or like the sudden moon, that stains 



204 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



Some gloomy chamber's window panes 
With a broad light like day. 



For language was in Peter's hand, 

Like clay, while he was yet a potter; 
And he made songs for all the land, 
Sweet both to feel and understand, 
As pipkins late to mountain cotter. 



And Mr. , the bookseller, 

Gave twenty pounds for some ;- 
then scorning 
A footman's yellow coat to wear, 
Peter, too proud of lieart, I fear, 
Instantly gave the Devil warning. 



Whereat the Devil took offence, 
And swore in his soul a great oath 
then, 
"That for his damned impertinence, 
He'd bring him to a proper sense 
Of what was due to gentlemen ! "— 



PART THE SIXTH. 

DAMNATION'. 

I. 

"O THAT mine enemy had written 
A book ! "—cried Job :— a fearful 
curse ; 
If to the Arab, as the Briton, 
'T was galling to be critic-bitten :— 
The Devil to Peter wished no worse. 

II. 

When Peter's next new book found 
vent, 

The Devil to all the first Reviews 
A copy of it slyly sent, 
With five-pound note as compliment. 

And this short notice—" Pray abuse." 



Then seriatim, month and quarter, 
Appeared such mad tirades.— One 
said— 
" Peter seduced Mrs. Foy's daughter. 
Then drowned the mother in Ullswater, 
The last thing as he went to bed." 



Another— "Let him shave his head ! 
Where's Dr. Willis !'- Or is he joking? 



What does the rascal mean or hope, 
No longer imitating Pope, 
In that barbarian Shakespeare pok- 
ing ? " 

V. 

One more, " Is incest not enough ? 
And must thei-e be adultery too ? 
Grace after meat? Miscreant and! 

Liar ! 

Thief ! Blackguard ! Scoundrel I [ 
Fool ! Hell-tire 
Is twenty times too good for you. 

VI. 

" By that last book of yours we think ; 
You've double damned yourself to ' 
scorn ; 
We warned you whilst yet on the brink i 
You stood. From your black namei 
will shrink 
The babe that is unborn." 

VII. 

All these Reviews the Devil made 
Up in a parcel, which he had 

Safely to Peter's house conveyed. 

For carriage, tenpence Peter paid- 
Untied them— read them— went half- 
mad. 



"What !" cried he, "this is my re- 
ward ti 
For nights of thought, and days of 1 
toil? 
Do poets, but to be abhorred 
By men of whom they never heard, 
Consume their spirits' oil ? 



IX. ^ 

" What have I done to them ?— andl 
who 

Is Mrs. Foy ? 'T is very cruel 
To speak of me and Betty so ! 
Adultery ! God defend me ! Oh ! 

I've half a mind to fight a duel. 



"Or," cried he, a grave look collecting, | 

" Is it my genius, like the moon, ( 

Sets those who stand her face inspect- ! 

ing. 
That face within their brain reflecting, j 
Like a crazed bell-chime, out oil 
tune ? " i 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



2G5 



i'or Peter did not know the town, 

But thought, as country readers do, 
^or half a guinea or a crown, 
le bought oblivion or renown 
From God's own voice in a review. 



ill Peter did on this occasion 
Was, writing some sad stuff in prose, 
t is a dangerous invasion 
Vhen poets criticise ; their station 
Is to delight, not pose. 

XIII. 

'he Devil then sent to Leipsic fair, 
For Bom's translation of Kant's 

book ; 
world of words, tail foremost, where 
light— wrong— false— true— and foul 

—and fair, 
As in a lottery-wheel are shook. 

XIV. 

ive thousand crammed octavo pages 
Of German psychologies, — he 
l^ho his furor vcrhoruni assuages 
hereon,' deserves just seven months' 

wages 
More than will e'er be due to me. 



lookt on them nine several days, 
And then I saw that they were bad ; 
. friend, too, spoke in their dispraise, — 
:e never read them ; — with amaze 
I found Sir William Drummond had . 

XVI. 

fhen the book came, the Devil sent 
It to P. Verbovale, Esquire, 
nth a brief note of compliment, 
y that night's Carlisle mail. It went. 
And set his soul on Are. 



ire, which ex luce prcvbens furrmm,, 
Made him beyond the bottom see 
f truth's clear well— when I and you 

Ma'am, 

0, as we shall do, suhtcr humum, 
We may know more than he. 



ow Peter ran to seed in soul 

Into a walking paradox ; 

or he was neither part nor whole, 



Nor good, nor bad — nor knave nor fool, 
—Among the woods and rocks. 



Furious he rode, where late he ran, 
Lashing and spurring his tame hob- 
by ; 
Turned to a formal puritan, 
A solemn and unsexual man, — 
He half believed White Obi. 



This steed in vision he would ride, 

High trotting over nine-inch bridges, 
With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride. 
Mocking and mowing by his side — 
A mad-brained goblin for a guide- 
Over corn-flelds, gates, and hedges. 

XXX. 

After these ghastly rides, he came 
Home to his heart, and found from 
thence 
Much stolen of its accustomed flame ; 
His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and 
lame 
Of their intelligence. 

XXII. 

To Peter's view, all seemed one hue ; 

He was no Whig, he was no Tory ; 
No Deist and no Christian he ; — 
He got so subtle, that to be 

Nothing was all his glory. 



One single point in his belief 

From his organization sprung, 
The heart-enrooted faith, the chief 
Ear in his doctrines' blighted sheaf, 
That " happiness is wrong ; " 



So thought Calvin and Dominic ; 

So think their fierce successors, who 
Even now would neither stint nor stick 
Our flesh from ofl: our bones to pick. 

If they might " do their do. " 



His morals thus were undermined : — 

The old Peter— the hard, old Potter 
Was born anew within his mind ; 
He grew dull, harsh, sly, unrefined. 
As when he tramped beside the Otter. ' 

' A famous river in the new Atlantis of 
the Dynastophylic Pantisocratists. 



266 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



In the death hues of agony 

Lambently flashing from a fish, 
Now Peter felt amused to see 
Shades like a rainbow's rise and flee, 
Mixt with a certain hungry wish. 



So in his Country's dying face 

He lookt— and lovely as she lay, 
Seeking in vain his last embrace. 
Wailing her own abandoned case. 
With hardened sneer he turned away : 



And coolly to his own soul said ;— 
"Do you not think that we might 
make 
A poem on her when she's dead :— 
Or, no— a thought is in my head — 
Her shroud for a new sheet I'll take. 



" My wife wants one.— Let who will 
bury 
This mangled corpse ! And I and 
you. 
My dearest Soul, will then make merry, 
As the Prince Regent did with Sher- 
ry,— 
Ay— and at last desert me too." 



And so his Soul would not be gay, 

But moaned within him ; like a fawn 
Moaning within a cave, it lay 
Wounded and wasting, day by day, 
Till all its life of life was gone. 

XXXI. 

As troubled skies stain waters clear. 

The storm in Peter's heart and mind 

Now made his verses dark and queer : 

They were the ghosts of what they 

were. 

Shaking dim grave-clothes in the 

wind. 

XXXII. 

For he now raved enormous folly, 
Of Baptisms, Sunday-schools, and 
Graves, 
'T would make George Colman melan- 
choly. 
To have heard him, like a male Molly, 
Chanting those stupid staves. 



Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse 

On Peter while he wrote for freedom,! 
So soon as in his song they spy, 
The folly which soothes tyranny. 
Praise him, for those who feed 'em. 



" He was a man, too great to scan ;— 

A planet lost in truth's keen rays :— 
His virtue, awful and prodigious ; — 
He was the most sublime, religious. 
Pure-minded Poet of these days." 



As soon as he read that, cried Peter, 

" Eureka ! I have found the way 
To make a better thing of metre 
Than e'(?r was made by living creature 
Up to this blessed day." 



Then Peter wrote odes to the Devil ;- 
In one of which he meekly said : 

"May Carnage and Slaughter, 

Thy niece and thy daughter, 

May Rapine and Famine, 

Thy gorge ever cramming. 
Glut thee with living and dead 1 



" May death and damnation, 

And consternation, 
Flit up from hell with pure intent 1 , 

Slash them at Manchester, j 

Glasgow, liCeds, and Chester ; 
Drench all with blood from Avon tcl 
Trent. 

XXXVIII. 1 

" Let thy body-guard yeomen 
Hew down babes and women, 1 

And laugh with bold triumph til r 
Heaven be rent. 
When Moloch in Jewry, 
Muncht children with fury. 
It was thou. Devil, dining with pun^H 
intent." 



PART THE SEVENTH. 

DOUBLE DAMNATION. 

I. 

The Devil now knew his proper cue.- 

Soon as he read the ode, he drove 
To his friend Lord MacMurderchouse's 
A man of interest in both houses. 
And said :— " For money or for love 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



2G7 



"Pray find some cure or sinecure ; 

To feed from the superfluous taxes, 
A friend of ours — a poet — fewer 
Have fluttered tamer to the lure 

Than he." His lordship stands and 
racks his 



Stupid brains, while one might count 

As many beads as he had boroughs, — 
At length replies ; from his mean front. 
Like one who rubs out an account, 
Smoothing away the unmeaning fur- 
rows : 



■'It happens fortunately, dear Sir, 

I can. I hope I need require 
So pledge from you, that he will stir 
[n our affairs ;— like Oliver, 
I That he '11 be worthy of his hire." 



These words exchanged, the news sent 
off 

To Peter, home the Devil hied,— 
Took to his bed ; he had no cough, 
!*Io doctor,— meat and drink enough,— 

Yet that same night he died. 



Dhe Devil's corpse was leaded down ; 

His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf, 
VIourning-coaches, many a one, 
^'ollowed his hearse along the town : — 

Where was the Devil himself ? 

VII. 

Vhen Peter heard of his promotion, 
His eyes grew like two stars for bliss: 
'here was a bow of sleek devotion, 
engendering in his back ; each motion 
Seemed a Lord's shoe to kiss. 



le hired a house, bought plate, and 
made 

A genteel drive up to his door, 
Vith sifted gravel neatly laid,— 
Is if defying all who said, 

Peter was ever poor. 



5ut a disease soon struck into 
The very life and soul of Peter— 
le walkt about— slept— had the hue 
^f health upon his cheeks — and few 
Dug better— none a heartier eater. 



And yet a strange and horrid curse 
Clung upon Peter, night and day, 

Month after month the thing grew 
worse. 

And deadlier than in this my verse, 
I can find strength to say. 

XI. 

Peter was dull— he was at first 

Dull— oh, so dull — so very dull ! 
Whether he talkt, wrote, or rehearst — 
Still with this dulness was he curst — 
Dull— beyond all conception — dull. 

XII. 

No one could read his books— no mor- 
tal, 
But a few natural friends, would 
hear him ; 
The parson came not near his portal ; 
His state was like that of the immortal 
Described by Swift— no man could 
bear him. 



His sister, wife, and children yawned, 
With a long, slow, and drear ennui, 

All human patience far beyond ; 

Their hopes of Heaven each would 
have pawned, 
Anywhere else to be. 

XIV. 

But in his verse, and in his prose, 
The essence of his dulness was 
Concentred and comprest so close, 
'T would have made Guatimozin doze 
On his red gridiron of brass. 

XV. 

A printer's boy, folding those pages, 
Fell slumbrously upon one side ; 

Like those famed seven who slept three 
ages. 

To wakeful frenzy's vigil rages, 
As opiates, were the same applied. 

XVI. 

Even the Reviewers who were hired 

To do the work of his reviewing. 
With adamantine nerves, grew 

tired ; — 
Gaping and torpid they retired. 
To dream of what they should be 
doing. 



268 



LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE. 



And worse and worse, the drowsy curse 
Yawned in him, till it grew a pest — 
A wide contagious atmosphere, 
Creeping like cold through all things 
near ; 
A power to infect and to infest. 



His servant-maids and dogs grew dull ; 

His kitten late a sportive elf, 
The woods and lakes, so beautiful, 
Of dim stupidity were full, 

All grew dull as Peter's self. 



The earth under his feet— the springs, 

Which lived within it a quick life, 
The air, the winds of many wings. 
That fan it with new murmurings, 
Were dead to their hai-monious 
strife. 

XX. 

The birds and beasts within the wood. 
The insects, and each creeping thing. 

Were now a silent multitude ; 

Love's work was left unwrought— no 
brood 
Near Peter's house took wing. 

XXI. 

And every neighboring cottager 

Stupidly yawned upon the other : 
No jack-ass brayed ; no little cur 
Cockt up his ears ;— no man would stir 
To save a dying mother. 



Yet all from that charmed district went 

But some half-idiot and half-knave, 
Who rather than pay any rent, 
Would live with marvellous content, 
Over his father's grave. 

XXIII. 

No bailiff dared within that space, 

For fear of the dull charm, to enter ; 
A man would bear upon his face, 
For fifteen months in any case, 
The yawn of such a venture. 

XXIV. 

Seven miles above — below — around — 
, This pest of dulness holds its sway ; 
A ghastly life without a soiuid ; 
To Peter's soul the spell is bound- 
How should it ever pass away ? 



LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE. 
Leghorn, July 1, 1820. 

The spider spreads her webs, whether ; 

she be 
In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree ; 
The silk-worm in the dark green mul- 
berry leaves 
His winding sheet and cradle ever 

weaves ; 
So I, a thing whom moralists call worm, 
Sit spinning still round this decaying. 

form. 
From the fine threads of rare and subtle 

thought — 
No net of words in garish colors 

wrought 
To catch the idle buzzers of the day — 
But a soft cell, where when that fades 

away, \ 

Memory may clothe in wings my livingi] 

name ■ 

And feed it with the asphodels of fame, | 
Whicli in those hearts which most re-' 

member me j 

Grow, making love an immortality. ; 

Whoever should behold me now, I 

wist, j 

Would think I were a mighty mech- 
anist, j 
Bent with sublime Archimedean art 
To breathe a soul into the iron heart 
Of some machine portentous, oi 

strange gin, 
Which by the force of figured spells 

might win 
Its way over the sea, and sport therein :i 
For round the walls are hung dreac 

engines, such 
As Vulcan never wrought for Jove tc 

clutch I 

Ixion or the Titan :— or the quick 
Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, j 
To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic j 
Or those in philanthropic council met' 
Who thought to pay some interest fo; iH 

the debt I 

They owed to Jesus Christ for thei'lc 

salvation. 
By giving a faint foretaste of dam 

nation 
To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, aiMJn 

the rest 
Wlio made our land an island of th'tri 

blest, '< 

When lamp-like Spain, who now rejiu 

lumes her fire 
On Freedom's hearth, grew dim witliTl 

Empire : — 



LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE. 



269 



With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth 

and spike and jag, 
Which fishers found under the utmost 

crag 
Of Cornwall and the storm-encompast 

isles, 
Where to the sky the rude sea rarely 

smiles 
Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the 

morn 

When the exulting elements in scorn 
Satiated with destroyed destruction, 

lay 
Sleeping in beauty on their mangled 

' prey, 

A.S panthers sleep ; — and other strange 
^ and dread 

\lagical forms the brick floor over- 
spread,— 
.Pi'oteus transformed to metal did not 

make 
More figures, or more strange ; nor did 

he take 

Such shapes of unintelligible brass, 
Dr heap himself in such a horrid mass 
Df tin and iron not to be understood ; 
knd. forms of unimaginable wood, 
To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood : 
Jreat screws, and cones, and wheels, 

and grooved blocks, 
The elements of what will stand the 

shocks 
3f wave and wind and time. — Upon 

the table 
tfore knacks and quips there be than I 

am able 

To catalogize in this verse of mine :— 
\. pretty bowl of wood — not full of 

wine, 
3ut quicksilver ; that dew which the 

gnomes drink 
When at their subterranean toil they 

swink, 

'ledging the demons of the earth- 
quake, who 
ileply to them in lava — cry halloo ! 
\.nd call out to the cities o'er their 

head,— 

[loofs, towers, and shrines, the dying 
, and the dead, 
3rash through the chinks of earth — and 

then all quaff 
Another rouse, and hold their sides 

and laugh. 
This quicksilver no gnome has drunk— 

within 
The walnut bowl it lies, veined and 

thin, 
n color like the wake of light that 

stains 
["he Tuscan deep, when from the moist 

moon rains 



The inmost shower of its white fire— 

the breeze 
Is still— blue heaven smiles over the 

pale seas. 
And in this bowl of quicksilver— for I 
Yield to the impulse of an infancy 
Outlasting manhood— I have made to 

float 
A rude idealism of a paper boat :— 
A hollow screw with cogs— Henry will 

know 
The thing I mean and laugh at me,— if 

so 
He feai's not I should do more mischief. 

—Next 
Lie bills and calculations much per- 

plext, 
With steam-boats, frigates, and ma- 
chinery quaint 
Traced over them in blue and yellow 

paint. 
Then comes a range of mathematical 
Instruments, for plans nautical and 

statical ; 
A heap of rosin, a queer broken glass 
With ink in it ;— a china cup that 

was 
What it will never be again, I think. 
A thing from which sweet lips were 

wont to drink 
The liquor doctors rail at— and which I 
Will quaff in spite of them— and when 

we die 
We '11 toss up who died first of drinking 

tea. 
And cry out,— heads or tails ? where'er 

we be. 
Near that a dusty paint box, some odd 

hooks, 
A half-burnt match, an ivory block, 

three books. 
Where conic sections, spherics, loga- 
rithms. 
To great Laplace, from Saunderson and 

Sims, 
Lie heapt in their harmonious disarray 
Of figures,— disentangle them who 

may. 
Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them 

lie, 
And some odd volumes of old chemis- 
try. 
Near those a most inexplicable thing, 
With lead in the middle — I'm conjec- 
turing 
How to make Henry understand ; but 

no^ 
I'll leave, as Spenser says, with many 

mo. 
This secret in the pregnant womb of 

time. 
Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme. 



270 



LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE. 



And here like some weird Archimage 

sit I, 
Plotting dark spells, and devilish 

enginery. 
The self-impelling steam-wheels of the 

mind 
Which pump up oaths from clergymen, 

and grind 
The gentle spirit of our meek reviews 
Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, 
Ruffling the ocean of their self-con- 
tent ;— 
I sit— and smile or sigh as is my bent, 
But not for them— Libeccio rushes 

round 
With an inconstant and an idle sound, 
I heed him more than them— the thun- 
der-smoke 
Is gathering on the mountains, like a 

cloak 
Folded athwart their shoulders broad 

and bare ; 
The ripe corn under the undulating air 
Undulates like an ocean ;— and the 

vines 
Are trembling wide in all their trellist 

lines— 
The murmur of the awakening sea 

doth fill 
The empty pauses of the blast ;— the 

hill 
Looks hoary through the white electric 

rain. 
And from the glens beyond, in sullen 

strain, 
The interrupted thunder howls ; above 
One chasm of heaven smiles, like the 

eye of Love 
On the unquiet world ;— while such 

things are, 
How could one worth your friendship 

heed the war 
Of worms ? the shriek of the world's 

carrion jays, 
Their censure, or their wonder, or their 

praise ? 

You are not here ! the quaint witch 

Memory sees 
In vacant chairs, your absent images. 
And points where once you sat, and 

now should be 
But are not.— I demand if ever we 
Shall meet as then we met ;— and she 

replies. 
Veiling in awe her second-sighted 

eyes ; 
♦' I know the past aloiu — " ntt summon 

home 
My sister Hope,— she speaks of all to 

come." 
But I, an old diviner, who knew well 



Every false verse of that sweet oracle, 
Turned to the sad enchantress onc€ 

again. 
And sought a respite from my gentle 

pain, 
In citing every passage o'er and o'er 
Of our communion— how on the sea-: 

shore 
We watcht the ocean and the sky to- 
gether. 
Under the roof of blue Italian weath- 
er ; 
How I ran home through last year's 

thunder-storm. 
And felt the transverse lightning lin-i 

ger warm 
Upon my cheek— and how we ofter 

made 
Feasts for each other, where good wit 

outweighed 
The frugal luxury of our country cheeri 
As well it might, were it less firm and 

clear 
Than ours must ever be ;— and how w( 

spun 
A shroud of talk to hide us from the 

sun 
Of this familiar life, which seems to be 
But is not,— or is but quaint mockery 
Of all we would believe, and sadljl 

blame 
The jarring and inexplicable frame 
Of this wrong world :— and then anato-f 

mize 
The purposes and thoughts of mer 

whose eyes 
Were closed in distant years ;— oi 

widely guess ! 

The issue of the earth's great business i 
When we shall be as we no longer are— | 
Like babbling gossips safe, who lieaij 

the war 
Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not ;- 

or how 
You listened to some interrupted flovij 
Of visionary rhyme,— in joy and pain , 
Struck from the inmost fountains o) : 

my brain, : 

With little skill perhaps ;— or how w( 

sought 
Those deepest wells of passion or o: ' 

thought 
Wrought by wise poets in the waste oi^ 

years, j' 

Staining their sacred waters with ou] |, 

tears ; 
Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed 
Or how I, wisest lady ! then indued 
The language of a land which now i' 

free, 
And winged with thoughts of truttl 

and majesty, '' 



LETTER TO MARIA GTSBORNE. 



271 



Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a 

cloud, 
And bursts the peopled prisons, and 

cries aloud, 
" My name is Legion !''— that majestic 

tongue 

Which Calderon over the desert flung 
Of ages and of nations ; and which 

found 
An echo in our hearts, and with the 

sound 
Startled oblivion ;— thou wert then to 

me 

As is a nurse— when inarticulately 
A child would talk as its gi-own parents 

do. 

If living winds the rapid clouds pursue. 
If hawks chase doves through the ethe- 
real way, 
Huntsmen the innocent deer, and 

beasts their prey. 
Why should not we rouse with the 

spirit's blast 
Out of the forest of the pathless past 
These recollected pleasures ? 

You are now 
In London, that great sea, whose ebb 

and flow 
At once is deaf and loud, and on the 

shore 
Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on 

for more, 
yet in its depth what treasures ! You 

will see 
That which was Godwin,— greater none 

than he 
rho' fallen— and fallen on evil times— 

to stand 
:\mong the spirits of our age and 

land, 

Before the dread tribunal of to come 
The foremost,— while Rebuke cowers 

pale and dumb. 
i'"ou will see Coleridge— he who sits 

obscure 
n the exceeding lustre, and the pure 
ntense irradiation of a mind, 
AHiich, with its own internal light- 
ning blind, 
f'lags wearily through darkness and 

despair — 
K cloud-encircled meteor of the air, 
V. hooded eagle among blinking 

owls. — 
Ton will see Hunt— one of those happy 

souls 
Vhich are the salt of the earth, and 
I without whom 
'his woiid would smell like what it 

is — a tomb ; 
Vho is, what others seem ; his room 

no doubt 



Is still adorned bj- many a cast from 

Shout, 
With graceful flowers tastefully placed 

about ; 
And coronals of bay from ribbons 

hung, 
And brighter wreaths in neat disorder 

flung ; 
The gifts of the most learn'd among 

some dozens 
Of female friends, sisters-in-law, and 

cousins. 
And there is he with his eternal puns. 
Which beat the dullest brain for 

smiles, like duns 
Thundering for money at a poet's 

door ; 
Alas ! it is no use to say, " I'm poor ! " 
Or oft in graver mood, when he will 

look 
Things wiser than were ever read in 

book, 
Except in Shakespeare's wisest tender- 
ness. — 
You will see Hogg, — and I cannot ex- 
press 
Her virtues,— though I know that they 

are great. 
Because he locks, then barricades the 

gate 
Within which they inhabit ;— of his 

wit 
And wisdom, you '11 cry out when you 

are bit 
He is a pearl within an oyster shell, 
One of the richest of the deep ; — and 

there 
Is English Peacock with his mountain 

fair 
Turned into a Flamingo : — that shy 

bird 
That gleams i' the Indian air — have 

you not heard 
When a man marries, dies, or turns 

Hindoo, 
His best friends hear no more of 

him ? — but you 
Will see him, and will like him too, I 

hope, 
With the milk-white Snowdonian 

Antelope 
Matclit with this camelopard — his flne 

wit 
Makes such a wound, the knife is lost 

in it ; 
A strain too learned for a shallow age, 
Too wise for selfish bigots ; let his page 
Which charms the chosen spirits of the 

time. 
Fold itself up for the serener clime 
Of years to come, and find its recom- 
pense 






LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE. 



In that just expectation. — Wit and 

sense, 
Virtue and liumau knowledge ; all that 

might 
Make this dull world a business of de- 
light, 
Are all combined in Horace Smith.— 

And these. 
With some exceptions, which I need 

not tease 
Your patience by descanting on,— are 

all 
You and I know in London. 

I recall 
My thoughts, and bid you look upon 

the night. 
As water does a sponge, so the moon- 
light 
Fills the void, hollow, universal air— 
What see you y— unpavilioned heaven 

js fair 
Whether the moon, into her chamber 

gone, 
Leaves midnight to the golden stars, 

or wan 
Climbs with diminisht beams the azure 

steep ; 
Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse 

deep, 
Piloted by the many-wandering blast, 
And the rare stars rush thro' them dim 

and fast : — 
All this is beautiful in every land.— 
But what see you beside :■'— a shabby 

stand 
Of Hackney coaches— a brick house or 

wall 
Fencing some lonely court, white with 

the scrawl 
Of our unhappy politics ;— or worse— 
A wretched woman reeling by, whose 

curse 
Mixt with the watchman's, partner of 

her trade. 
You must accept in place of sere- 
nade — 
Or yellow-haired PoUonia murmur- 
ing 
To Henry, some unutterable thmg. 
I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit 
Built round dark caverns, even to the 

root 
Of the living stems that feed them— in 

whose bowers 
There sleep in their dark dew the 

folded flowers : 
Beyond, the surface of the unsickled 

corn 
Trembles not in the slumbering air, and 

borne 
In circles quaint, and ever-changing 
dance, 



Like winged stars the tire-flies flash 

and glance. 
Pale in the open moonshine, but each 

one 
Under the dark trees seems a little 

sun, 
A meteor tamed ; a fixt star gone 

astray 
From the silver regions of the milky 

way ;— 
Afar the Contadino's song is heard. 
Rude, but made sweet by distance^ 

and a bird 
Which cannot be the Nightingale, and 

yet 
I know none else that sings so sweet as ; 

it 
At this late hour ;— and then all is . 

still- 
Now Italy or London, which you will t ! 

Next winter you must pass with me ; ; 

I '11 have 
My house by that time turned into a i 

grave 
Of dead despondence and low-thought- 

ed care. 
And all the dreams which our tormen- 
tors are ; 
Oh ! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock, and! 

Smith were there, 
With everything belonging to themi 

fair !— 
We will have books, Spanish, Italian, , 

Greek ; 
And ask one week to make another r 

week 
As like his father, as Pm unlike mine. 
Which is not his fault, as you may 

divine. 
Though we eat little flesh and drink no 

wine. 
Yet let 's be merry : we '11 have tea and 

toast ; 
Custards for supper, and an endless 

host 
Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, 
And other such lady-like luxuries,— i 
Feasting on which we will philoso-! 

phize ! 
And we'll have fires out of the Grand 

Duke's wood, 
To thaw the six weeks' winter in our 

blood. 
And then we '11 talk— what shall we 

talk about ? 
Oh ! there are themes enough for ; 

many a bout 
Of thought-entangled descant ;— as to 

nerves — I 

With cones and parallelograms andi^ 

curves 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



273 



I've sworn to strangle them if once 
they dare 

To bother me— when you are with me 
there. 

And they shall never more sip lauda- 
num, 

From Helicon or Himeros ;— well, 
come, 

And in despite of God and of the devil, 

We '11 make our friendly philosophic 
revel 

Outlast the leafless time ; till buds 
and flowers 

Warn the obscure inevitable hours, 

Sweet meeting by sad parting to re- 
new ; — 

" To-morrow to fresh woods and pas- 
tures new." 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 
TO MARY. 

(OK HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOW- 
ING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS 
CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST.) 



How, my dear Mary, are you critic- 
bitten, 
(For vipers kill, tho' dead,) by some 

review, 
That you condemn these verses I have 

written. 
Because they tell no story, false or 

true ! 
What, tho' no mice are caught by a 

young kitten, 
May it not leap and play as grown 

cats do, 
Till its claws come ? Prithee, for this 

one time, 
Content thee with a visionary rhyme. 



What hand would crush the silken- 
winged fly, 
The youngest of inconstant April's 
minions, 

Because it cannot climb the purest 
sky, 
Where the swan sings, amid the sun's 
dominions ? 

Not thine. Thou knowest 't is its doom 

I to die. 

When day shall hide within her twi- 
light pinions 

The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, 

Serene as thine, which lent it life 
awhile. 
i8 



To thy fair feet a winged Vision came, 
Whose date should have been longer 
than a day, 
And o'er thy head did beat its wings 
for fame. 
And in thy sight its fading plumes 
display ; 
The watery bow burned in the e\en- 
ing flame, 
But the shower fell, the swift sun 
went his way — 
And that is dead. Oh, let ,me not be- 
lieve 
That any thing of mine is fit to live ! 

IV. 

Wordsworth informs us he was nine- 
teen years 
Considering and retouching Peter 

Bell ; 
Watering his laurels with the killing 

tears 
Of slow, dull care, so that their roots 

to hell 
Might pierce, and their wide branches 

blot the spheres 
Of heaven, with dewy leaves and 

flowers ; this well 
May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire 

to foil 
The over-busy gardner's blundering 

toil. 

V. 

My Witch indeed is not so sweet a 

creatux'e 
As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful 

praise 
Clothes for our grandsons— but she 

matches Peter, 
Tho' he took nineteen years, and she 

three days 
In dressing. Light the vest of flowing 

metre 
She wears ; he, proud as dandy with 

his stays. 
Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress 
Like King^Lear's " loopt and windowed 

raggedness." 

VI. 

If you strip Peter, you will see a fel- 
low, 
Scorcht by Hell's hyperequatorial 
climate 
Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow : 
A lean mark hardly flt to fling a 
rhyme at ; 
In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. 



274 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



If you unveil my Witch, no priest 

nor primate 
Can shrive you of that sin,— if sin 

there be 
In love, when it becomes idolatry. 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



Before those cruel Twins, whom at 

one birth 
Incestuous Change bore to her father 

Time, 
Error and Truth, had hunted from the 

Earth 
All those bright natures which 

adorned its prime, 
And left us nothing to believe in, 

worth 
The pains of putting into learned 

rhyme, 
A Lady- Witch there lived on Atlas' 

mountain 
Within a cavern, by a secret fountain. 

II. 

Her mother was one of the Atlantides: 
The all-beholding Sun had ne'er be- 
holden 

In his wide voyage o'er continents and 
seas 
So fair a creature, as she lay en- 
folden 

In the warm shadow of her loveli- 
ness ; — 
He kist her with his beams, and 
made all golden 

The chamber of gray rock in which she 
lay — 

She, in that dream of joy, dissolved 
away. 

III. 

'T is said, she lirst was changed into a 
vapor. 
And then into a cloud, such clouds as 
flit. 
Like splendor-winged moths about a 
taper, 
Round the red west when the sun 
dies in it : 
And then into a meteor, such as caper 
On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: 
Then, into one of those mysterious 

Which hide themselves between the 
Earth and Mars. 



Ten times the Mother of the Months 

had bent 
Her bow beside the folding-star, and 

bidden 
With that bright sign the billows to in- 
dent 
The sea-deserted sand— like children, 

chidden. 
At her command they ever came and 

went — 
Since in that cave a dewy splendor i 

hidden 
Took shape and motion : with the liv-: 

ing form 
Of this embodied Power, the cave grew 

warm. 



A lovely lady garmented in light 
From her own beauty— deep her eyes, , 
as are 
Two openings of unfathomable night 
Seen thro' a Temple's cloven roof ;— - 
her hair 
Dark— the dim brain whirls dizzy with i 
delight, 
Picturing her form ; her soft smiles - 
shone afar. 
And her low voice was heard like love, 

and drew 
All living things towards this wonder i 
new. 



And first the spotted cam elopard came. 
And then the wise and fearless ele- 
phant ; 

Then the sly serpent, in the golden 
flame 
Of his own volumes intervolved ;— 
all gaunt 

And sanguine beasts her gentle looks 
made tame. 
They drank before her at her sacred 
fount ; 

And every beast of beating heart grew 
bold, 

Such gentleness and power even to be- 
hold. 



The brinded lioness led forth her 

young, 
That she might teach them how they 

should forego 
Their inborn thirst of death ; the pard 

unstrung 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



•li) 



His sinews at her feet, and sought to 
know 
With looks whose motion spoke with- 
out a tongue 
How he might be as gentle as tlie 
doe. 
The magic circle of her voice and eyes 
All savage natures did iniparadise. 



VIII. 

And old Silenus, shaking a green stick 
Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a 
crew 
Came, blithe, as in the olive copses 
thick 
Cicadse are, drunk with the noonday 
dew : 
And Dryope and Faunus followed 
quick, 
Teasing the God to sing them some- 
thing new ; 
Till in this cave they found the lady 

lone, 
Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. 



And universal Pan, 't is said, was there. 
And tho' none saw him,— thro' the 
adamant 
Oi the deep mountains, thro' the track- 
less air, 
And thro' those living spirits, like a 
want 
He past out of his everlasting lair 
Where the quick heart of the great 
world doth pant. 
And felt that wondrous lady all 

alone, — 
And she felt him, upon her emerald 
throne. 



And every nymph of stream and 

spreading tree. 
And every shepherdess of Ocean's 

flocks. 
Who drives her white waves over the 

green sea, 
And Ocean with the brine on his gray 

locks. 
And quaint Priapus with his company. 
All came, much wondering how the 

enwombed rocks 
Could have brought forth so beautiful 

a birth ; — 
Her love subdued their wonder and 

their mirth. 



The herdsmen and the mountain 

maidens came. 
And the rude kings of pastoral Gara- 

mant — 
Their spirits shook within them, as a 

flame 
Stirred by the air under a cavern 

gaunt : 
Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a 

name, 
Centaurs and Satyrs, and such shapes 

as haunt 
Wet clefts,— and lumps neither alive 

nor dead. 
Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird- 
footed. 



For she was beautiful— her beauty 
made 
The bright world dim, and every- 
thing beside 
Seemed like the fleeting image of a 
shade : 
No thought of living spirit could 
abide. 
Which to her looks had ever been be- 
trayed. 
On any object in the world so wide. 
On any hope within the circling skies, 
But on her form, and in her inmost 
eyes. 



Which when the Lady knew, she took 
her spindle 
And twined three threads of fleecy 
mist, and three 
Long lines of light, such as the dawn 
may kindle 
The clouds and waves and mountains 
with ; and she 
As many star-beams, ere their lamps 
could dwindle 
In the belated moon, wound skilfully; 
And with these threads a subtle veil 

she wove — 
A shadow for the splendor of her love. 

XIV. 

The deep recesses of her odorous dwell- 
ing 
Were stored with magic treasures — 
sounds of air, 

Which had the power all spirits of 
compelling, 



27G 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



Folded in cells of crystal silence 

there ; 

Sucli as we hear in youth, and think 

the feeling 

Will never die— yet ere we are aware, 

The feeling and the sound are fled and 

gone. 
And the regret they leave remains 
alone, 

XV. 

And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, 

and quaint, 
Each in its thin sheath, like a chrys- 
alis, 
Some eager to burst forth, some weak 

and faint 
With the soft burden of intensest 

bliss ; 
It was their work to bear to many a 

saint . , 

Whose heart adores the shrine which 

holiest is, 
Even Love's :— and others white, 

green, gray, and black. 
And of all shapes— and each was at her 

beck. 

xvr. 

And odors in a kind of aviary 
Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she 
kept, 
Clipt in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy 
Had woven from dew-beams while 
the moon yet slept ; 
As bats at the wired window of a dairy, 
They beat their vans ; and each was 
an adept. 
When loosed and missioned, making 

wings of winds, 
To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in des- 
tined minds. 



And liquors clear and sweet, whose 
healthful might 
Could medicine the sick soul to 
happy sleep, 
And change eternal death into a night 
Of glorious dreams— or if eyes needs 
must weep, 
Could make their tears all wonder and 
delight, 
She in her crystal vials did closely 

If men could drink of those clear vials, 

't is said 
The living were not envied of the dead. 



XVIII. 

Her cave was stored with scrolls of 
strange device. 
The works of some Saturnian Archi- 
mage, 
Which taught the expiations at whose 
price 
Men from the Gods might win that 
happy age 
Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; 
And which might quench the Earth- 
consuming rage 
Of gold and blood— till men should live 

and move 
Harmonious as the sacred stars above ; 



And how all things that seem untam- 
able. 
Not to be checkt and not to be con- 
fined, 

Obey the spells of wisdom's wizard 
skill ; 
Time, earth, and fire, the ocean and 
the wind. 

And all their shapes, and man's im- 
perial will ; 
And other scrolls whose writings did 
unbind 

The inmost lore of Love— let the pro- 
fane 

Tremble to ask what secrets they con- 
tain. 



And wondrous works of substances 

unknown, 
To which the enchantment of her 

father's power 
Had changed those ragged blocks of 

savage stone. 
Were heapt in the recesses of her 

bower ; 
Carved lamps and chalices, and vials 

which shone 
In their own golden beams— each 

like a flower, 
Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his 

light 
Under a cypress in a starless night. 



At first she lived alone in this wild 

home, 
And her own thoughts were each a 

minister. 
Clothing themselves, or with the ocean 

foam, 



THE WITCH OP ATLAS. 



377 



Or with the wind, or witli tlie speed 

of fire, 
To work whatever purposes might 

come 
Into her mind ; such power her 

mighty Sire 
Had girt them with, whether to fly or 

run, 
Through all the regions which he 

shines upon. 

XXII. 

The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, 
Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy 
locks. 
Offered to do her bidding thro' the 
seas. 
Under the earth, and in the hollow 
rocks, 
And far beneath the matted roots of 
trees, 
And in the gnarled heart of stubborn 
oaks. 
So they might live forever in the light 
Of her sweet presence — each a satellite. 

XXIII. 

" This may not be," the Wizard Maid 

replied ; 
The fountains where the Naiades be- 
dew 
Their shining hair, at length are 

drained and dried ; 
The solid oaks forget their strength, 

and strew 
Their latest leaf upon the mountains 

wide ; 
The boundless ocean like a drop of 

dew 
Will be consumed— the stubborn centre 

must 
Be scattered, like a cloud of summer 

dust. 

XXIV. 

"And ye with them will perish, one 
by one ; — 
If I must sigh to think that this shall 
be. 
If I must weep when the surviving Sun 
Shall smile on your decay— oh, ask 
not me 
To love you till your little race is run ; 

I cannot die as ye must — over me 
Your leaves shall glance — the streams 

in which ye dwell 
Shall be my paths henceforth, and so- 
farewell ! — 



XXV. 

She spoke and wept :— the dark and 
azure well 
Sparkled beneath the shower of her 
bright tears, 
And every little circlet where they fell 
Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant 
spheres 
And intertangled lines of light :— a 
knell 
Of sobbing voices came upon her ears 
From those departing Forms, o'er the 

serene 
Of the white streams and of the forest 
green. 



All day the Wizard Lady sate aloof, 
Spelling out scrolls of dread anti- 
quity. 
Under the cavern's fountain-lighted 
roof ; 
Or broidering the pictured poesy 
Of some high tale upon her growing 
woof, 
Which the sweet splendor of her 
smiles could dye 
In hues outshining Heaven and ever 

she 
Added some grace to the wrought 
poesy. 

XXVII. 

While on her hearth lay blazing many 
a piece 
Of sandal-wood, rare gums, and cin- 
namon ; 
Men scarcely know how beautiful fire 
is — 
Each flame of it is as a precious stone 
Dissolved in ever-moving llght,and this 
Belongs to each and all who gaze 
upon. 
The Witch beheld it not, for in her 

hand 
She held a woof that dimmed the burn-, 
ing brand. 

XXVIII. 

This Lady never slept, but lay in 

trance 
All night within the fountain — as in 

sleep. 
Its emerald crags glowed in her 

beauty's glance ; 
Thro' the green splendor of the water 

deep 



5i78 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



She saw the constellations reel and 

dance 
Like tire-flies — and withal did ever 

keep 
The tenor of her contemplations calm, 
With open eyes, closed feet and folded 

palm. 



XXIX. 

And when the whirlwinds and the 
clouds descended 
From the white pinnacles of that 
cold hill, 
She past at dewfall to a space ex- 
tended, 
Where in a lawn of flowering aspho- 
del 
Amid a wood of pines and cedars 
blended. 
There yawned an inextinguishable 
well 
Of crimson fire— full even to the brim, 
And overflowing all the margin trim. 



XXX. 

Within the which she lay when the 
fierce war 
Of wintry winds shook that innocu- 
ous liquor 

In many a mimic moon and bearded 
star 
O'er woods and lawns ;— the serpent 
heard it fiicker 

In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept 
afar— 
And when the windless snow de- 
scended thicker 

Than autumn leaves, she watcht it as 
it came 

Melt on the surface of the level flame. 



XXXI. 

She had a Boat, which some say Vul- 
can wrought 
For Venus, as the chariot of her 

star ; 
But it was found too feeble to be 

fraught 
With all the ardors in that sphere 

which are, 
And so she sold it, and Apollo bought 
And gave it to this daughter : from 

a car 
Changed to the fairest and the lightest 

boat 
Which ever upon mortal stream did 

float. 



And others say, that, when but three 

hours old. 
The first-born Love out of his cradle 

leapt. 
And clove dun Chaos with his wings 

of gold. 
And like a horticultural adept. 
Stole a strange seed, and wrapt it iip 

in mould. 
And sowed it in his mother's star, 

and kept 
Watering it all the summer with sweet 

dew, 
And with his wings fanning it as it 

grew. 

XXXIII. 

The plant grew strong and green, the 

snowy flower 
Fell, and the long and gourd-like 

fruit began 
To turn the light and dew by inward 

power 
To its own substance ; woven tracery 

ran 
Of light firm texture, ribbed and 

branching, o'er 
The solid rind, like a leaf's veined 

fan — 
Of which Love scoopt this boat— and 

with soft motion 
Piloted it round the circumfluous 

ocean. 

XXXIV. 

This boat .she moored upon her fount, 
and lit 
A living spirit within all its frame, 
Breathing the soul of swiftne.ss into it. 
Coucht on the fountain like a pan- 
ther tame, 
One of the twain at Evan's feet that 
sit— 
Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift 
flame — 
Or on blind Homer's heart a winged 

thought, — 
In joyous expectation lay the boat. 

XXXV. 

Then by strange art she kneaded fire 

and snow 
Together, tempering the repugnant 

mass 
With liquid love— all things together 

grow 



THE WITCH OP ATLAS. 



279 



Thro' which the harmony of love can 
pass ; 

A.nd a fair Shape out of her hands did 
flow— 
A living Image, which did far sur- 
pass 

[n beauty that bright shape of vital 
stone 

Which drew the heart out of Pygma- 
lion. 

xxxvr. 

A sexless thing it was, and in its 
growth 
It seemed to have developed no defect 
Of either sex, yet all the grace of 
both, — 
In gentleness and strength its limbs 
were deckt ; 
The bosom lightly swelled with its full 
youth, 
The countenance was such as might 
select 
Some artist that his skill should never 

die, 
Imaging forth such perfect purity. 



From its smooth shoulders hung too 
rapid wings, 
Fit to have borne it to the seventh 
sphere 
Tipt with the speed of liquid lightnings. 
Dyed in the ardors of the atmosphere : 
She led her creature to the boiling 
springs 
Where the light boat was moored, 
and said : "Sit here !" 
And pointed to the prow, and took her 

seat 
Beside the rudder, with opposing feet. 



And down the streams which clove 
those mountains vast, 
Around their inland islets, and amid 
The panther-peopled forests, whose 
shade cast 
Darkness and odors, and a pleasure 
hid 
In melancholy gloom, and pinnace past; 
By many a star-surrounded pyramid 
Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky. 
And caverns yawning round un- 
fathomably. 

XXXIX. 

The silver noon into the winding dell. 
With slanted gleam athwart the 
forest tops, 



Tempered like golden evening, feebly 
fell; 
A green and glowing light, like that 
which drops 

From folded lilies in which glow- 
worms dwell. 
When earth over her face night's 
mantle wi'aps ; 

Between the severed mountains lay on 
high, 

Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. 



And ever as she went, the Image lay 
With folded wings and unawakened 

eyes ; 
And o'er its gentle countenance did 

play 
The busy dreams, as thick as summer 

flies, 
Chasing the rapid smiles that would 

not stay, 
And drinking the warm tears, and 

the sweet sighs 
Inhaling, which, with busy murmur 

vain. 
They had aroused from that full heart 

and brain. 

XLI. 

And ever down the prone vale, like a 
cloud 
Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace 
went : 

Now lingering on the pools, in which 
abode 
The calm and darkness of the deep 
content 

In which they paused ; now o'er the 
shallow road 
Of white and dancing waters, all be- 
sprent 

With sand and polished pebbles :— mor- 
tal boat 

In such a shallow rapid could not float. 

XLII. 

And down the earthquaking cataracts 
which shiver 
Their snow-like waters into golden 
air. 
Or under chasms unfathomable ever 
Sepulchre them, till in their rage 
they tear 
A subterranean portal for the river. 
It fled— the circling sunbows did up- 
bear 
Its fall down the hoar precipice of 

spray, 
Lighting it far upon its lampless way. 



280 



THK WITCH OF ATLAS. 



XLIII. 



And when the Wizard Lady would 

The labyrinths of some many-wind- 
ing vale, 
Which to the inmost mountain upward 
tend— 
She called " Hermaphroditus !"— and 
the pale 
And heavy hue which slumber could 
extend 
Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale 
A rapid shadow from a slope of grass. 
Into the darkness of the stream did 
pass. 

XLIV. 

And it unfurled its heaven colored pin- 
ions, 
With stars of fire spotting the stream 
below ; 

And from above into the Sun's do- 
minions 
Flinging a glory, like the golden glow 

In which sirring clothes her emerald- 
win.iit'd minions, 
All interwoven with fine feathery 
snow 

And moonlight splendor of intensest 
rime. 

With which frost paints the pines in 
winter time, 

XLV. 

And then it winnowed the Elysian air 
Which ever hung about that Lady 
bright. 
With its ethereal vans— and speeding 
there. 
Like a star up the torrent of the 
night, 
Or a swift eiiiilo in the morning glare 
Breastinu- the whirlwind with im- 
petuous riight. 
The pinnace, oared by those enchanted 

wings, 
Clove the fierce streams towards their 
upper springs. 

XLVI. 

The water flasht like sunlight by the 
prow 
Of a noon-wandering meteor flung 
to Heaven ; 
The still air seemed as if its waves did 
flow 
In tempest down the mountains ; 
loosely driven 



The Lady's radiant hair streamed to 

and fro : 
Beneath, the billows having vainly 

striven 
Indignant and impetuous, roared to 

feel 
The swift and steady motion of the 

keel. 



XLVII. 

Or, when the weary moon was in the 
wane, 
Or in the noon of interlunar night. 
The Lady-Witch in visions could not 
chain 
Her spirit ; but sailed forth under 
the light 
Of shooting stars, and bade extend I! 
amain I 

Its storm-outspeeding wings the ' 
Hermaphrodite ; 
She to the Austral waters took her way. 
Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana ; 



XLVII 

Where, like a meadow which no scytlie 

has shaven. 
Which rain could never bend, or 

whirl-blast shako, 
With the Antarctic constellations 

paveu, 
Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral 

lake- 
There she would build herself a wind- 
less haven 
Out of the clouds whose moving 

turrets make 
The bastions of the storm, when thro' 

the skv 
The spirits of the tempest thundered 

by; 



A haven beneath whose translucent 
floor 
The tremulous stars sparkled unfath- 
omably. 
And around which -the solid vapors 
hoar. 
Based on the level waters, to the sky 
Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a 
shore 
Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly 
Hemmed in with rifts and precipices 
gray, , 

And hanging crags, many a cove and 
bay. 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



281 



L. 

And whilst the outer lake beneath the 
lash 
Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a 
wounded thing 
i And the incessant hail with stony clash 
Ploughed up the waters, and the flag- 
ging wing 
Of the roused cormorant in the light- 
ning flash 
Lookt like the wreck of some wind- 
wandering 
Fragment of inky thunder-smoke — this 

haven 
Was as a gem to copy Heaven en- 
graven. 

LI. 

On which that Lady played her many 
pranks. 
Circling the image of a shooting star, 
Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks 
Outspeeds the antelopes which speed- 
iest are. 
In her light boat ; and many quips and 
cranks 
She played upon the water, till the car 
Of the late moon, like a sick matron 

wan, 
To journey from the misty east began. 

LII. 

And then she called out of the hollow 
turrets 
Of those high clouds, white, golden 
and vermilion, 
The armies of her ministering spirits— 
In mighty legions, million after mil- 
lion. 
They came, each troop emblazoning its 
merits 
On meteor flags ; .-ud many a proud 
pavilion 
Of the intertexture of the atmosphere 
They pitcht upon the plain of the calm 
mere. 



LIII. 

They framed the imperial tent of their 
great Queen 
Of woven exhalations, underlaid 
With lambent lightning-fire, as maybe 
seen 
A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid 
With crimson silk— cressets from the 
serene 
Hung there, and on the water for her 
tread 



A tapestry of fleece-like mist was 

strewn, 
Dyed in the beams of the ascending 

moon. 



And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, 
caught 
Upon those wandering isles of aery 
dew, 

Which highest shoals of mountain ship- 
wreck not, 
She sate, and heard all that had hap- 
pened new. 

Between the earth and moon, since 
they had brought 
The last intelligence — and now she 
grew 

Pale as that moon, lost in the watery 
night — 

And now she wept, and now she laught 
outright. 



LV. 



These were tame pleasures : she would 

often climb 
The steepest ladder of the crudded 

rack 
Up to some beaked cape of cloud 

sublime, 
And like Arion on the dolphin's back 
Ride singing through the shoreless air ; 

— oft-time 
Following the serpent lightning's 

winding track, 
She ran upon the platforms of the 

wind. 
And laught to hear the fire-balls roar 

behind. 



LVI. 

And sometimes to those streams of up- 
per air 
Which whirl the earth in its diurnal 

round, 
She would ascend, and win the spirits 

there 
To let her join their chorus. Mortals 

found 
That on those days the sky was calm 

and fair. 
And mystic snatches of harmonious 

sound 
Wandered upon the earth where'er she 

past, 
And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet 

to last. 



282 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



But her choice sport was, in the hours 
of sleep, 
To glide adown old Nilus, where he 
threads 
Egypt and ^Ethiopia, from the steep 
Of utmost Axume, until he spreads. 
Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep, 
His waters on the plain : and crested 
heads 
Of cities and proud temples gleam 

amid. 
And many a vapor -belted pyramid. 



By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, 
Strewn with faint blooms like bridal- 
chamber floors. 
Where naked boys bridling tame water- 
snakes, 
Or charioteering ghastly alligators. 
Had left on the sweet waters mighty 
wakes 
Of those huge forms— within the 
brazen doors 
Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy 

and beast, 
Tired with the pomp of their Osirian 
feast. 

LIX. 

And where within the surface of the 
river 
The shadows of the massy temples lie, 
And never are erased — but tremble 
ever 
Like things which every cloud can 
doom to die, 
Thro' lotus-paven canals, and where- 
soever 
The works of man pierced that se- 
renest sky 
With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 

't was her delight 
To wander in the shadow of the night. 

LX. 

With motion like the spirit of that 
wind 
Whose soft step deepens slumber, her 
light feet 
Past through the peopled haunts of hu- 
man kind, 
Scattering sweet visions from her 
presence sweet. 
Through fane, and palace-court, and 
labyrinth mined 
With naany a dark and subterranean 
street 



Under the Nile, thro' chambei-s high 

and deep 
She past, observing mortals in their 

sleep. 

LXI. 

A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to 
see 
Mortals subdued in all the shapes of 
sleep. 
Here lay two sisters twins in infancy : 
There, a lone youth who in his dreams 
did weep ; 
Within, two lovers linked innocently 
In their loose locks which over both 
did creep 
Like ivy from one stem ;— and there lay 

calm 
Old age with snow-bright hair and 
folded palm. 

LXII. 

But other troubled forms of sleep she 
saw, 
Not to be mirrored in a holy song — 
Distortions foul of supernatural awe. 
And pale imaginings of visioned 
wrong ; 
And all the code of custom's lawless 
law 
Written upon the brows of old and 
young : 
"This," said the Wizard Maiden, "is 

the strife 
Which stirs the liquid surface of man's 
life." 

LXIII. 

And little did the sight disturb her 

soul. — 
We, the weak mariners of that wide 

lake 
Where'er its shores extend .or billows 

roll. 
Our course unpiloted and starless 

make 
O'er its wild surface to an unknown 

goal :— 
But she in the calm depths her way 

could take. 
Where in bright bowers immortal 

forms abide 
Beneath the weltering of the restless 

tide. 

LXIV. 

And she saw princes coucht under the 
glow 
Of sunlike gems ; and round each 
temple-court 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



283 



In dormitories ranged, row after row, 
I She saw the priests asleep— all of one 

sort— 
For all were educated to be so. — 
The peasants in their huts, and in 

the part 
The sailors she saw cradled on the 

waves, 
And the dead lulled within their 

dreamless graves. 

LXV. 

And all the forms in which those spirits 
lay 
Were to her sight like the diaphan- 
ous 

Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft 
array 
Their delicate limbs, who would con- 
ceal from us 

Jnly their scorn of all concealment : 
they 
Move in the light of their own beauty 
thus. 

But these and all now lay with sleep 
upon them. 

A.nd little thought a Witch was looking 
on them. 



3he, all those human figures breathing 
there, 
Beheld as living spirits — to her eyes 
The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, 
And often thro' a rude and worn dis- 
guise 
3he saw the inner form most bright 
and fair — 
And then she had a charm of strange 
device, 
Which, murmured on mute lips with 

tender tone, 
;;;ould make that spirit mingle with her 
own. 

LXVII. 

yas ! Aurora, what wouldst thou have 

given 
For such a charm when Tithon be- 
came gray 'i 
Dr how much, Venus, of thy silver 

Heaven 
Wouldst thou have yielded, ere 

Proserpina 
Sad half (oh ! why not all ?) the debt 

forgiven 
Which dear Adonis had been doomed 

to pay. 
To any witch who would have taught 

you it V 
The Heliad doth not know its value yet. 



'T is said in after times her spirit free 
Knew what love was, and felt itself 
alone— 
But holy Dian could not chaster be 

Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, 
Than now this lady — like a sexless bee 
Tasting all blossoms, and confined to 
none. 
Among those mortal forms, the Wiz- 
ard-Maiden 
Past with an eye serene and heart un- 
laden. 

LXIX. 

To those she saw most beautiful, she 
gave 
Strange panacea in a crystal bowl : — 
They drank in their deep sleep of that 
sweet wave, 
And lived thenceforward as if some 
control. 
Mightier than life, were in them ; and 
the grave 
Of such, when death opprest the 
weary soul. 
Was as a green and overarching bower 
Lit by the gems of many a starry 
flower. 

LXX. 

For on the night when they were 

buried, she 
Restored the embalmers' ruining, 

and shook 
The light out of the funeral lamps, to 

be 
A mimic day within that deathy 

nook ; 
And she unwound the woven imagery 
Of second childhood's swaddling- 
bands, and took 
The coffin, its last cradle, from its 

niche, 
And threw it with contempt into a 

ditch. 

LXXI. 

And there the body lay, age after age, 
Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and 
undecaying, 
Like one asleep in a green hermitage. 
With gentle smiles about its eyelids 
playing, 
And living in its dreams beyond the 
rage 
Of death or life ; while they were 
still arraying 
In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind 
And fleeting generations of mankind. 



284 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



LXXII. 

And she would write strange dreams 

upon the brain 
Of tliose who were less beautiful, 

and make 
All harsh and crooked purposes more 

vain 
Than in the desert is the serpent's 

wake 
Which the sand covers ; — all his evil 

gain 
The miser in such dreams would rise 

and shake 
Into a licLT.y'iii's lap ; — the lying scribe 
Would his own lies betray without a 

bribe. 

Lxxni. 

The priests would write an explanation 
full, 
Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, 
How the god Apis really was a bull, 
And nothing more ; and bid the her- 
ald stick 
The same against the temple doors, 
and pull 
The old cant down ; they licensed all 
to speak 
Whatever they thought of hawks, and 

cats, and geese, 
By pastoral letters to each diocese. 

LXXIV. 

The king would dress an ape up in his 

ci'own 
And robes, and seat him on his glori- 
ous seat, 
And on the right hand of the sunlike 

throne 
Would place a gaudy mock-bird to 

repeat 
The chatterings of the monkey.— Every 

one 
Of the prone courtiers crawled to 

kiss the feet 
Of their great Empei-or, when the 

morning came, 
And kist— alas, how many kiss the 

same ! 

LXXV. 

The soldiers dreamed that they were 
blacksmiths, and 
Walkt out of quarters in somnam- 
bulism ; 
Round the red anvils you might see 
them stand 
Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty 
aby.sm, 



Beating their swords to plough- 
shares ; —in a band 
The gaolers sent those of the liberal 
schism 

Free through the streets of Memphis, 
much, I wis. 

To the annoyance of king Amasis. 



And timid lovers who had been so coy, , 
They hardly knew whether they; 

loved or not. 
Would rise out of their rest, and take; 

sweet joy, 
To the fulfilment of their inmost t 

thought ; 
And when next day the maiden and 1 

the boy ; 

Met one another, both, like sinners- 

caught, 
Blusht at the thing which each believed J 

was done 
Only in fancy — till the tenth moon) 

shone ; 

LXXVII. 

And then the Witch would let them 1 
take no ill : 
Of many thousand schemes which] 
lovers find. 
The Witch found one,— and so theyif 
took their fill i 

Of happiness in marriage warm and 3' 
kind. 
Friends who, by practice of some en- 
vious skill. 
Were torn apart, a wide wound, 
mind from mind ! 
She did unite again with visions clear 
Of deep affection and of truth sincere. 



These were the pranks she played 

among the cities 
Of mortal men, and what she did to 

sprites 
And gods, entangling them in heri 

sweet ditties 
To do her will, and show their subtle* 

slights, 
I will declare another time ; for it is ■ 
A tale more fit for the weird winter 

nights. 
Than for these garish summer days, 

when we 
Scarcely believe much more than we 

can see. 



SWEI.LFOOT THE TYRANT. 



28^ 



NOTE ON THE "WITCH OF AT- 
LAS," BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

We spent the summer of 1830 at the 
iaths of San Criuliano, four miles 
rom Pisa. These batlis were of great 
ise to Shelley in soothing his nervous 
rritability. We made several excur- 
.ions in the neighborhood. The coun- 
try around is fertile, and diversified 
md rendered picturesque by ranges 
)f near hills and more distant moun- 
ains. The peasantry are a handsome, 
ntelligent race ; and there was a glad- 
;ome sunny heaven spread over us, 
.hat rendered home and every scene 
ve visited cheerful and bright. Dur- 
ng some of the hottest days of August, 
5helley made a solitary journey on 
'oot to the summit of Monte San Pel- 
egrino — a mountain of some height, 
)n the top of which there is a chapel, 
;he object, during certain days of the 
fear, of many pilgrimages. The ex- 
iursion delighted him while it lasted ; 
though he exerted himself too much, 
ind the effect was considerable lassi- 
tude and weakness on his return. 
During the expedition he conceived 
the idea, and wrote, in the three days 
immediately succeeding to his return, 
the "Witch of Atlas." This poem is 
peculiarly characteristic of his tastes 
—wildly fanciful, full of brilliant im- 
agery, and discarding human interest 
and passion, to revel in the fantastic 
ideas that his imagination suggested. 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS, 
OK 

SWELLPOOT THE TY^RANT, 

A TRAGEDY 

IN TWO ACTS. 

Translated from the Original Doric 

" Choose Reform or civil war, 
When thro' thy streets, instead of hare 

with clogs, 
A CoNSORT-QoEEN shall hunt a King with 

hogs. 
Riding on the IONIAN MINOTAUR. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 
This Tragedy is one of a triad, or 
system of three Plays (an arrange- 
ment according to which the Greeks 
were accustomed to connect their dra- 
matic representations), elucidating 



the wonderful and appalling fortunes 
of the SwELLFOOT dynasty. It was 
evidently written by some Jayriicd 
Thchmi, and, from its characteristic 
dulness, apparently before the duties 
on the importation of Attic salt had 
been repealed by the Boeotarchs. 
The tenderness with which he treats 
the PIGS proves him to have been a 
sus Ba'tkec ; possibly £pjcuri dc gregc 
230cc!(s ; for, as the poet observes, 
" A fellow feeling makes us wondrous 
kind." 

No liberty has been taken with the 
translation of this remarkable piece of 
antiquity, except the suppressing a 
seditious and blasphemous Chorus of 
the Pigs and Bulls at the last act. The 
word Hoydipouse (or more properly 
GEdipus), has been rendered literally 
SwELLFOOT, without its having been 
conceived necessary to determine 
whether a swelling of the hind or the 
fore feet of the Swinish Monarch is par- 
ticularly indicated. 

Should the remaining portions of this 
Tragedy be found, entitled, " Swell- 
foot in Angaria," and "Charite," the 
Translator might be tempted to give 
them to the reading Public. 

CEDIPUS TYRANNUS. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Tyrant Swellfoot, Khig of Thebes. 
loNA Taurina, his Queen. 
Mammon, Arch-Priest, of Famine. 
PuRGANAX, I Wizards, Ministers of 

(SWELLFOOT.* 



Dakry, 

Laoctonos, 
The Gadfly. 
The Leech 
The Rat. 



Moses, the Sow-gelder. 
Solomon, the Porkman. 
Zephaniah Pic) Butcher, 
The Minotaur. 
Chorus of the Sivinish Multitude. 
Guards Attendants, Priests, etc. 

SCENE.— THEBES. 
ACT I. 
SCENE I.— ^ magnijiccnt Temple, 
huLlt of thigh-bones and deatWs 
heads, and tiled with scalps. Over 
the Altar the statue of Famine, 
veiled : a number of boars, sows, 
and sucking pigs, crowned with 
thistle, shamrock, and oak, sitting 
on the steps, and clinging round the 
altar of the Tem^ple. 

' PuRGANAx, Lord Castlereagh, Dakry ; 
Lord Eldon ; Laoctonos, Duke of Welling- 
ton. 



286 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS : OR 



Enter Sw'F.LhFOOT, in his Royal rohcs, 
iclthuut perceiving the Pigs. 

Swellfoot. Thou supreme Goddess ! 
by whose power divine 

These graceful limbs are clothed in 
proud array 

[He conteiiiplKtes himself with satis- 
faction. 

Of gold and purple, and this kingly 
paunch 

Swells like a sail before a favoring 
breeze. 

And these most sacred nether promon- 
tories 

Lie satisfied with layers of fat ; and 
these 

Boetian cheeks, like Egypt's pyramid, 

(Nor with less toil were their founda- 
tions laid, ' ) 

Sustain the cone of my untroubled 
brain, 

That point, the emblem of a pointless 
nothing ! 

Thou to whom Kings and laurelled 
Emperors, 

Radical-butchers, Paper-money-mill- 
ers, 

Bishops and deacons, and the entire 
army 

Of those fat martyrs to the persecu- 
tion 

Of stifling turtle-soup, and brandy- 
devils, 

Offer their secret vows ! Thou plente- 
ous Ceres 

Of their Eleusis, hail ! 
The Sirine. Eigh ! eigh ! eigh ! 

eigh ! 
Swellfoot. Ha ! what are ye, 

Who, crowned with leaves devoted to 
the Furies, . 

Cling round this sacred shrine ? 
Swine. Aigh ! aigh ! aigh ! 
Swellfoot. What ! ye that are 

The very beasts that, offered at her 
altar 

With blood and groans, salt-cake, and 
fat, and inwards. 

Ever propitiate her reluctant will 

When taxes are withheld ? 
Swine. Ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! 
SireUfoot. What S' ye who grub 

With filthy snouts my red potatoes up 

In Allan's rushy bog ? Who eat the 
oats 

1 See Universal History for an account 
of the number of people who died, and the 
immense consumption of garlic by the 
wretched Egyptians, who made a sepulchre 
for the name as well as the bodies of their 
tyrants. i 



Up, from my cavalry in the Hebrides ? 
Who swill the hog-wash soup my cooks 

digest 
From bones, and rags, and scraps of' 

shoe-leather, 
Which should be given to cleaner Piga 

than you ? 

The Swine. — Semichorus I. 
The same, alas ! the same ; 
Though only now the name 

Of Pig i-emains to me. 

Semi chorus II. 

If 't w^ere your kingly will 
Us wretched Swine to kill, 
What should we yield to thee ? 
Swellfoot. Why, skin and bones,- 
and some few hairs for mortar. 

Chorus of Sivine. 

I have heard your Laureate sing. 
That pity was a royal thing ; 
Under your mighty ancestors, we Pigs 
Were blest as nightingales on myrtle ( 

sprigs, 
Or grasshoppers that live on noonday; 

dew, 
And sung, old annals tell, as sweetlyi 

too. 
But now our sties are fallen in, we« 

catch 
The murrain and the mange, the scabi 

and itch ; 
Sometimes your royal dogs tear down 

our thatch, 
And then we .seek the shelter of a 

ditch ; 
Hog- wash or grains, or rutabaga, none ^ 
Has yet been ours since your reign' [ 

begun. 

First Sow. 

My Pigs, 't is in vain to tug. 

Second SoiO. 

I could almost eat my litter. 

First Pig. 

I suck, but no milk will come from 
the dug. 

Second Pig. 

Our skin and our bones would be/j 
bitter. t 

The Boars. 

We fight for this rag of greasy rug . 
Though a trough of wash would 
be fitter. 



SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT. 



2S7 



Scmichorus. 

happier Swine were they than we, 
Drowned in the G-adarean sea- 
wish that pity would drive out the 

devils, 
Which in your royal bosom hold their 

revels, 
k.n6. sink us in the waves of thy com- 
passion ! 
Mas ! the Pigs are an unhappy nation ! 
S'ow if your Majesty would have our 

bristles 
To bind your mortar with, or fill our 

colons 
With rich blood, or make brawn out of 

our gristles. 
In policy— ask else your royal 

Solons— 
^ou ought to give us hog-wash and 

clean straw, 
A.nd sties well thatcht ; besides it is 

the law ! 
Swcllfoot. This is sedition, and 

rank blasphemy ! 
Ho ! there, my guards ! 

Enter a Guard. 

Guard . Your sacred Majesty. 

Swellfoot. Call in the Jews, Solomon 
tlie court porkman, 
Moses the sow-gelder, and Zephaniah 
The hog-butcher. 

Guard. They are in waiting. Sire. 

Enter Solomon, Moses, and 

Zephaniah. 
Swellfoot. Out with your knife, old 
Moses, and spay those Sows, 

[The pigs ru7i about in consterna- 
tion. 

That load the earth with Pigs ; cut 

close and deep, 
.Moral restraint I see has no effect. 
Nor prostitution, nor our own example. 
Starvation, typhus-fever, war, nor 

prison — 
This was the art which the arch-priest 

of Famine 
Hinted at in his charge to the Theban 

clergy- 
Cut close and deep, good Moses. 

Moses. Let your Majesty 

Keep the boars quiet, else — 

SwcUfont. Zephaniah, cut 

That fat Hog's throat, the brute seems 

overfed ; 
Seditious hunks ! to whine for want of 

grains. 
Zephaniah. Your sacred Majesty, 

he has the dropsy ; — 



We shall find pints of hydatids in 's 

liver. 
He has not half an inch of wholesome 

fat 
Upon his carious ribs — 

Swellfoot. 'T is all the same, 

He '11 serve instead of riot money, 

when 
Our murmuring troops bivouac in 

Thebes' streets ; 
And January winds, after a day 
Of butchering, will make them relish 

carrion. 
Now, Solomon, I'll sell you in a lump 
The whole kit of them. 

Solomon. Why, your Majesty, 

I could not give — 
Swellfoot. Kill them out of 

the way. 
That shall be price enough, and let me 

hear 
Their everlasting grunts and whines 

no more ! 
[Exeunt, driving in the sioine. 

Enter Maumo'S, the Arch-Prici<t ; and. 
PuRGANAX, Chief of the Council 
of Wizards. 
Purganax. The future looks as 
black as death, a cloud, 

Dark as the frown of Hell, hangs over 
it. 

The troops grow mutinous— the reve- 
nue fails — 

There 's something rotten in us — for 
the level 

Of the State slopes, its very bases 
topple, 

The boldest turn their backs upon 
themselves ! 
Mammon. Why what 's the matter, 
my dear fellow, now ? 

Do the troops mutiny ? — decimate some 
regiments ; 

Does money fail ? — come to my mint- 
coin paper. 

Till gold be at a discount, and ashamed 

To show his bilious face, go purge him- 
self, 

In emulation of her vestal whiteness. 
Purganax. Oh, would that this 

were all ! The oracle ! 
Mammon. Why it was I who spoke 
that oracle. 

And whether I was dead-drunk or in- 
spired, 

I cannot well remember ; nor, in truth. 

The oracle itself ! 
Purga nax. The words went thus :— 

" Bceotio, choose reform or civil war ! 

When thro' thy streets, instead of hare 
with dogs, 



288 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS : OR 



A Consort Queen shall hunt a King 

with hogs, 
Riding on the Ionian Minotaiu-." 
Miunmon. Now if the oracle had 

ne'er foretold 
This sad alternative, it must arrive, 
Or not, and so it must now that it has, 
And whether I was urged by grace 

divine. 
Or Lesbian liquor to declare these 

words. 
Which must, as all words must, be 

false or true ; 
It matters not : for the same power 

made all, 
Oracle, wine, and me and you — or 

none — 
'T is the same thing. If you knew as 

much 
Of oracles as I do— 

Purcidun.r. You arch-priests 

Believe in nothing ; if you were to 

dream 
Of a particular number in the Lottery, 
You would not buy the ticket ? 

Mam mo)i. Yet our tickets 

Are seldom blanks. But what steps 

have you taken ? 
For prophecies when once they get 

abroad. 
Like liars who tell the truth to serve 

their ends, 
Or hypocrites who, from assuming 

virtue. 
Do the same actions that the virtues 

do, 
Contrive their own fulfilment. This 

lona— 
Well— you know what the chaste Pasi- 

phae did, 
Wife to that most religious King of 

Crete, 
And still how popular the tale is 

here ; 
And these dull Swine of Thebes boast 

their descent 
From the free Minotaur. You know 

they .still 
Call themselves Bulls, though thus de- 
generate, 
And everything relating to a Bull 
Is popular and respectable in Thebes. 
Their arms are seven Bulls in a field 

gules. 
They think their strength consists in 

eating beef ; — 
Now there were danger in the prece- 
dent 
If Queen lona — 

Purgamix. I have taken good care 
That shall not be. I struck the crust 

o' the earth 



With this enchanted rod, and Hell lay 

bare ! 
And from a cavern full of ugly shapes, 
I chose a Leech, a Gadfly, and a 

Rat. 
The gadfly was the same which Juno 

sent 
To agitate lo,' and which EzekieP 

mentions 
That the Lord whistled for out of the 

mountains 
Of utmost Ethiopia, to toi'ment 
Mesopotaniian Babylon. The beast 
Has a loud trumpet like the Scarabee, 
His crooked tail is barbed with many 

stings, 
Each able to make a thousand wounds, 

and each 
Immedicable ; from his convex eyes 
He .sees fair things in many hideous 

shapes. 
And trumpets all his falsehood to the 

world. 
Like other beetles he is fed on dung — 
He has eleven feet with which he 

crawls. 
Trailing a blistering slime, and this 

foul beast 
Has trackt lona from the Theban 

limits. 
From isle to isle, from city unto city, 
Urging her flight from the far Cher- 
sonese 
To fabulous Solyma, and the ^tnean 

Isle, 
Ortygia, Melite, and Calypso's Rock, 
And the swart tribes of Garamant and 

Fez, 
^Eolia and Elysium, and thy shores, 
Parthenope, which now, alas! are free! 
And thro' the fortunate Saturnian 

land, 
Into the darkness of the West. 

Mcunmon. But if 

This Gadfly should drive lona hither ? 

Purgana.r. Gods ! what an (/.' but 

there is my gray Rat : 
So thin with want, he can crawl in and 

out 
Of any narrow chink and filthy hole, 
And he shall creep into her dressing- 
room. 
And— 
Mammon. My dear friend, where 

are your wits ? as if 
She does not always toast a piece of 

cheese 

* The Prometheus Bound of ^schylus. 
2 And the Lord whistled for the gadfly out 
of Ethiopia, and for the bee of Egyp^ 

etc.— EZEKIEL. 



SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT. 



289 



^ud bait the trap ? and rats, when 

lean enough 
.'o crawl through sitdi chinks— 
Purgannr. But my Leech— 

a leech 
i'it to suck blood, with lubricous round 

rings, 
;!apaciously expatiative, which make 
lis little body like a red balloon, 
Is full of blood as that of hydrogen, 
Juckt from men's hearts ; insatiably 

he sucks 
Lnd clings and pulls — a horse-leech, 

whose deep maw 
.""he plethoric King Swellfoot could 

not fill, 

Ind who, till full, will cling for ever. 
Mammon. This 

i'or Queen lona might suffice, and 

bless ; 

Jut 't is the swinish multitude I fear, 
Lnd in that fear I have — 
Purganax. Done what ? 

Mammon. Disinherited 

ly eldest son Chrysaor, because he 
i.ttended public meetings, and would 

always 

Stand prating there of commerce, pub- 
lic faith, 
economy, and unadulterate coin 
k.nd other topics, ultra-radical ; 
Ind have entailed my estate, called 

the Fool's Paradise, 
\.nd funds in fairy-money, bonds, and 

bills, 
Jpon my accomplished daughter Bank- 

notina, 

^nd married her to the Gallows. 
Purganax. A good match ! 

Mammon. A high connection, Pur- 
ganax. The bridegroom 
s of a very ancient family, 
)f Hounslow Heath, Tyburn, and the 

New Drop, 
Vnd has great influence in both 

Houses ;— oh ! 
le makes the fondest husband ; nay, 

too fond, — 
^ew married people should not kiss in 

public ; 
Jut the poor souls love one another 

so ! 
Ind then my little grandchildren, the 

Gibbets, 

^remising children as you ever saw, — 
'he young playing at hanging, the 

elder learning 
low to hold radicals. They are well 

taught too, 
i'or every Gibbet says its catechism 
Vnd reads a select chapter in the Bible 
Before it goes to play. 

19 



[A most tremendous hummiug is 

heard. 
Purganax. Ha ! what do I hear ? 

Enter the Gadfly. 

Mammon. Your Gadfly, as it seems, 
is tired of gadding. 

Oadfly. Hum ! hum ! hum ! 

From the lakes of the Alps, and the 
cold gray scalps 
Of the mountains, I come, 
Hum ! hum ! hum ! 
From Morocco and Fez, and the higli 
palaces 
Of golden Byzantium ; 
From the temples divine of old Pales- 
tine, 
From Athens and Rome, 
With a ha ! and a hum ! 
I come ! I come ! 
All inn-doors and windows 

Were open to me ; 
I saw all that sin does 
Which lamps hardly see 
That burn in the night by the cur- 
tained bed,— 
The impudent lamps ! for they blusht 
not red, 
Dinging and singing. 
From slumber I rung her, 
Loud as the clank of an iron- 
monger ; 

Hum ! hum ! hum ! 

P'ar, far, far ! 
With the trump of my lips, and the 
sting at my hips, 
I drove her — afar ! 
Far, far, far ! 
From city to city, abandoned of pity, 
A ship without needle or star ; — 
Homeless she past, like a cloud on the 
blast, 
Seeking peace, finding war ;— 
She is here in her car. 
From afar, and afar ; — 
Hum ! hum ! 

I have stung her and wrung her. 

The venom is working ; — 
And if you had hung her 
With canting and quirking, 
She could not be deader than she will 

be soon ; — 
I have driven her close to you, under 
the moon. 
Night and day, hum ! hum ! ha ! 
I have hummed her and drummed her 
From place to place, till at last I have 
dumbed her. 

Hum ! hum ! hum 1 



290 



CRDTPUS TVRANNUS ; OR 



Enter iltc Lep:ch and the Rat. 
Leech. I will suck 

Blood or muck ! 
The disease of the state is a ple- 

thory, 
Who so fit to reduce it as I ?~ 

Tl((t. I'll slyly seize and 

Let blood from herweasaiid,— 
Creeping thro' crevice, and chink, and 

cranny, 
"With my snakey tail, and my sides so 

scfanny . 

Purganax. 
Aroint ye ! thou unprofitable worm ! 

\Tn the Leech. 

And thou, dull beetle, get thee back to 

hell ! [To the (iadfly. 

To sting the ghosts of Babylonian 

kings. 
And the ox-headed lo. — 

Sii'ine (withhi). 
"* Ugli, ugh, ugh ! 
Hail ! lona the divine, 
"We will be no longer swine, 
But Bulls with horns and dewlaps. 

Bnt. 

For, 
You know, my lord, the Minotaur— 
Pnnidnnx (flercclij). 
Be silent 1 get to hell ! or I will call 
The cat out of the kitchen. Well, 

Lord Mammon, 
This is a pretty business. 

[Exit the Rat. 
Matainon. 

I will go 
And spell some scheme to make it ugly 
then. — [Exit. 

Enter SwELLFOOT. 
SioeUfoot. She is returned ! Tau- 
ri'na is in Thebes 
When Swellfoot wishes that she were 

in hell I 
( ) Hymen, clothed in yellow jealousy, 
And waving o'er the couch of wedded 

kings 
The torch of Discord with its fiery hair : 
This is thy work, thou patron saint of 

queens ! 
Swellfoot is wived ! tho' parted by the 

sea, 
The very name of wife had conjugal 

rights ; 
Her cursed image ate, drank, slept with 

me, 
And in the arms of Adiposa oft 
Her memory has received a hus- 
band's— 



[A loiul tumnJt and (•/•/cv o/ " lona 

for ever ! — No Swellfoot ! " 
Swellfoot. Hark \ 

How the swine cry lona Taurina ; 
I suffer the real presence ; Purganax, 
Off with her head ! 
Purgana.v. But I must first 

impanel 
A jury of the Pigs. 
Swellfoot. Pack them then. 

Purgana.v. Or fattening some few 

in two separate sties. 
And giving them clean straw, tying 

some bits 
Of ribbon round their legs — giving 

their Sows 
Some tawdry lace, and bits of lustre 

glass, 
And their young Boars white and redi 

rags, and tails 
Of cows, and jay feathers, and stickingi 

cauliflowers 
Between the ears of the old ones ; andi 

when ' 

They are persuaded, that by the in-i 

herent virtue 
Of these things, they are all imperial 

Pigs, 
Good Lord ! they 'd rip each other's: 

bellies up, 
Not to say help us in destroying her. 
Swellfoot. This plan might be tried<' 

too ;— where 's General 
Laoctonos ? 

Enter Laoctonos and Dakry. 
It is my royal pleasure 
That you. Lord General, being the 

head and body. 
If separate it would please me better, 

hither 
Of Queen lona. 
Lecoctonos. That pleasure I well 

knew, 
And made a charge with those battal- 
ions bold, 
Called, from their dress and grin, the 

royal Apes, 
Upon the Swine, who, in a hollow 

square 
Enclosed her, and received the first at- 
tack 
Like so many Rhinoceroses, and then 
Retreating in good order, with bare^ 

tvisks 
And wrinkled snouts presented to the- 

foe. 
Bore her in triumph to the public 

sty. 
What is still worse, some Sows upon 

the ground 
Have given the Ape-guards apples,- 

nuts, and gin. 



SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT. 



291 



A.nd they all whisk their tails aloft, 

and ciy, 
■'Long live lona ! down with Swell- 
foot ! " 
Purganax. Hark ! 

The Sivine (ivithout). Long live 

lona ! down the Swellfoot ! 
Daknj. I 

Went to the garret of the Swineherd's 

tower, 
Which overlooks the sty, and made a 

long 
Harangue (all words) to the assembled 

Swine, 

Df delicacy, mercy, judgment, law, 
Morals, and precedents, and purity, 
Adultery, destitution, and divorce, 
Piety, faith, and state necessity, 
^nd how I loved the Queen ! — and then 

I wept 

With the pathos of my own eloquence, 
i^nd every tear turned to a mill-stone, 

which 
Brained many a gaping Pig, and there 

was made 
^. slough of blood and brains upon the 

place, 
jrreased with the pounded bacon ; 

round and round 
The mill-stones rolled, ploughing the 

pavement up, 
!^nd hurling suckling Pigs into the air. 
With dust and stones— 

Enter Mammon. 
Mammon. I wonder that 

gray wizards 
Like you should be so beardless in 

their schemes ; 
[t had been but a point of policy 
To keep lona and the Swine apart. 
Divide and rule ! but ye have made a 

junction 
Between two parties who will govern 

you 
But for my art.— Behold this BAG ! it 

is 
The poison BAG and that Green Spider 

huge, 
Dn which oiir«spies skulked in ovation 

thro' 
The streets of Thebes, when they were 

paved with dead : 
A bane so much the deadlier fills it now, 
A.S calumny is worse than death, — for 

here 

The Gadflv's venom, fifty times dis- 
tilled, 

[s mingled with the vomit of the Leech, 
[n due proportion, and black ratsbane, 

which 
That very Rat, who, like the Pontic 

tyrant, 



Nurtures himself on poison, dare not 

touch ; — 
All is sealed up with the broad seal of 

Fraud, 
Who is the Devil's Lord High Chancel- 
lor, 
And over it the Primate of all Hell 
Murmured this pious baptism: — "Be 

thou called 
The GREEN BAG ; and this power 

and grace be thine : 
That thy contents, on whomsoever 

poured. 
Turn innocence to guilt, and gentlest 

looks 
To savage, foul, and fierce deformity. 
Let all baptized by thy infernal dew 
Be called adulterer, drunktird, liar, 

wretch ! 
No name left out which orthodoxy 

loves. 
Court JouruAl or legitimate Review ! — 
Be they called tyrant, beast, fool, glut- 
ton, lover 
Of other wives and husbands than their 

own — 
The heaviest sin on this side of the 

Alps ! 
Wither they to a ghastly caricature 
Of what was human ! — let not man or 

beast 
Behold their face with unaverted eyes ! 
Or hear their names with ears that 

tingle not 
With blood of indignation, rage, and 

shame ! " — 
This is a perilous liquor ;— good my 

Lords. — 

[Swellfoot approaches to touch 
the GREEN BAG. 

Beware ! for God's sake, beware !— if 

you should break 
The seal, and touch the fatal liquor— 
Purganax. There, 

Give it to me. I have been used to 

handle 
All sorts of poisons. His dread Maj esty 
Only desires to see the color of it. 
Mammon. Now, with a little com- 
mon sense, my Lords, 
Only undoing all that has been done 
(Yet so as it may seem we but confirm 

it). 
Our victory is assured. We must 

entice 
Her Majesty from the style, and make 

the Pigs 
Believe that the contents of the 

GREEN BAG 
Are the true test of guilt or innocence. 



292 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS : OR 



And that, if she be guilty, 't will trans- 
form her 

To manifest deformity like guilt. 

If innocent, she will become trans- 
figured 

Into an angel, such as they say she is ; 

And they will see her flying through 
the air, 

So bright that she will dim the noon- 
day sun ; 

Showering down blessings in the shape 
of comfits. 

This, trust a priest, is just the sort of 
thing 

Swine will believe. I'll wager you will 
see them 

Climbing upon the thatch of their low 
sties, 

With pieces of smoked glass, to watch 
her sail 

Among the clouds, and some will hold 
the flaps 

Of one another's cars between their 
teeth. 

To catch the coming hail of comfits in. 

You, Purganax, who have the gift o' 
the gab. 

Make them a solemn speech to this 
effect : 

I go to put in readiness the feast 

Kept to the honor of our goddess Fam- 
ine, 

Where, for more glory, let the cere- 
mony 

Take place of the uglification of the 
Queen. 
Dakry (to Swell foot). I, as the 
keeper of your sacred conscience, 

Humbly remind your Majesty that the 
care 

Of your high office, as man-milliner 

To red Bellona, should not be deferred. 

Pur(j<tnitT. All part in happier 

plight to meet again. [Exeunt. 

END OF THE FIRST ACT. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I.— The Public Sty. 

The Boars in full Assembly. 

Enter Purganax. 

Purgan ax. Cxrant me your patience. 
Gentlemen and Boars, 
Ye, by whose patience under public 

burdens 
The glorious constitution of these sties 
Subsists, and shall subsist. The lean- 
pig rates 



Grow with the growing populace ol; 

Swine, 
The taxes, that true source of piggish- 

ness 
(How can I find a more appropriates 

term 
To include religion, morals, peace, and 

plenty. 
And all that fit Bceotia as a nation 
To teach the other nations how to live ?', 
Increased with piggishness itself ; and 

still 
Does the revenue, that great spring ol 

all ! 

The patronage, and pensions, and by-^ 

payments, 
Which free-born Pigs regard with 

jealous eyes. 
Diminish, till at length, by glorious 

steps. 
All the land's produce will be merged 

in taxes, 
And the revenue will amount to— noth- 
ing ! 
The failure of a foreign market for 
Sausage, bristles, and blood-pud- 
dings, 
And sucii home manufactures is but 

partial ; 
And, that the population of the Pigs, 
Instead of hog-wash, has been fed on 

straw 
And water, is a fact which is— yoo 

know — 
That is— it is a state-necessity— 
Temporary, of course. The impiousi 

Pigs, 
Who, by frequent squeaks, have dared' 

impugn 
The settled Swellfoot system, or to 

make 
Irreverent mockery of the genuflexions 
Inculcated by the arch-priest, have 

been whipt 
Into a loyal and an orthodox whine. 
Things being in this happy state, the 

Queen 
lona — 
{A loud cry from the Pigs.) She is i 

innocent ! most innocent ! 
Purganax. That is the very thing' 

that I was saying. 
Gentlemen Swine ; the Queen lona 

being 
Most innocent, no doubt, returns to 

Thebes, 
And the lean Sows and Boars collect 

about her, 
Wishing to make her think that we be- 
lieve 
(I mean those more substantial Pigs, 

who swill 



SWELLFOOT THE TYllANT. 



293 



ilich hog-wash, while the others mouth 
damp straw) 

Chat she is guilty ; thus, the Lean-Pig 
faction 

Seeks to obtain that hog- wash, which 
has been 

iTour immemorial right, and which I 
will 

Maintain you in to the last drop of — 
A Boar (interrupting him). What 

Does any one accuse her of ? 
Purganax. Why, no one 

\Iakes any positive accusation ; — but 

There were hints di-opt, and so the 
privy wizards 

Jonceived that it became them to ad- 
vise 

.lis Majesty to investigate their 
truth ; — 

!^ot for his own sake ; he could be con- 
tent 

To let his wife play any pranks she 
pleased, 

t, by that sufferance, he could please 
the Pigs ; 

But then he fears the morals of the 
Swine, 

The sows especially, and what effect 

t might produce upon the purity and 

Religion of the rising generation 

Df sucking Pigs, if it could be sus- 
pected 

That Queen lona— [^4 jxnisc. 

First Boar. Well, go on ; we long 

To hear what she can possibly have 
done. 
Purganax. Why, it is hinted that a 
certain Bull — 

Thus much is knoivn :— the milk-white 
Bulls that feed 

Beside Clitumnus and the crystal lakes 

Of the Cisalpine mountains in fresh 
dews 

Df lotus-grass and blossoming asphodel, 

Sleeking their silken hair, and with 
sweet breath 

Loading the morning winds until they 
faint 

With living fragrance, are so beauti- 
ful !— 

Well, I say nothing ; — but Europa rode 

3n such a one from Asia into Crete, 

4nd the enamoured sea grew calm be- 
neath 

ais gliding beauty. And Pasiphae, 

[ona's grandmother,— but she is inno- 
cent ! 

\nd that both you and I, and all assert. 
First Boar. Most innocent ! 
Purganax. Behold this 

BAG ; a Bag— 
Second Boar. Oh ! no GREEN J 



BAGS ! ! Jealousy's eyes are 

green. 
Scorpions are green, and water-snakes, 

and efts, 
And verdigris, and — 

Purganax. Honorable Swine, 

In piggish souls can prepossessions 

reign ? 
Allow me to remind you, grass is 

green — 
All flesh is grass ;— no bacon but is 

flesh— 
Ye are but bacon. This divining BAG 
(Which is not green, but only bacon 

color) 
Is filled with liquor, which if sprinkled 

o'er 
A woman guilty of — we all know 

what — 
Makes her so hideous, till .she finds one 

blind 
She never can commit the like again. 
If innocent, she will turn into an angel. 
And rain down blessings in the shape 

of comfits 
As she flies up to heaven. Now, my 

proposal 
Is to convert her sacred Majesty 
Into an angel (as I am sure we shall do), 
By pouring on her head this mystic 

water. 

[Showing the Bag. 
I know that she is innocent ; I wish 
Only to prove her so to all the world. 
First Boar. Excellent, just, and 

noble Purganax. 
Second Boar. How glorious it will 

be to see her Majesty 
Flying above our heads, her petticoats 
Streaming like — like — like — 
TJiird Boar. Any thing. 

Purganax. Oh, no ! 

But like a standard of an admiral's 

ship. 
Or like the banner of a conquering 

host. 
Or like a cloud dyed in the dying day, 
Unravelled on the blast from a white 

mountain ; 
Or like a meteor, or a war-steed's name, 
Or waterfall from a dizzy precipice 
Scattered upon the wind. 
First Boar. Or a cow's tail. 

Second Boar. Or any thing, as the 

learned Boar observed. 
Purganax. Gentlemen Boars, I 

move a resolution. 
That her most sacred Majesty should be 
Invited to attend the feast of Famine, 
And to receive upon her chaste white 

body 
Dews of Apotheosis from this BAG. 



294 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS ; OR 



\ A great confusion is hcdrd of the 
Pigs OUT of Doohs, which commu- 
nicates itself to those witltiu. Dur- 
ing the Jirst'Stroplie, the doors of the 
Stye are staved in, a ml a number 
of exceedingly lean Pigs and Sows 
and Boars rush in. 

Semichorfis I. 
No ! Yes ! 

Semichorus II. 
Yes ! No ! 

Semichorus I. 
A law ! 

Semichorus II. 
A flaw ! 

Sonichorus I. 
I'orkers, we shall lose our wash, 
Or must share it with the Leaii-Pigs! 
First Boar. 
Order ! order ! be not rash ! 
Was there ever such a scene, Pigs ! 
^1(1 old Soiv (rushing in). 
I never saw so fine a dash 
Since I-first began to wean Pigs. 
Second Boar (solemnly). 
The Queen will be an angel time 
enough. 
I vote, in form of an amendment, that 
Purganax rub a little of that stnlf 
Upon his face. 

Purganax (His heart is seen to beat 
hroughhis waistcoat). 

Gods ! What would ye be at ? 
Semichorus I. 
Purganax has plainly shown a 
Cloven foot and jack-daw feather. 

Semichorus IT. 
I vote Swellfoot and lona 

Try the magic test together ; 
Whenever royai spouses bicker. 
Both should try the magic liquor. 

An old Boar (aside). 
A miserable state is that of Pigs, 
For if their drivers would tear caps 
and wigs. 
The Swine must bite each other's ear 
therefore. 

An old Sow (aside). 
A wretched lot Jove has assigned 

to Swine, 
Squabbling makes Pig-herds hungry, 
and they dine 
On bacon, and whip sucking-Pigs the 
more. 



Chorus. 

Hog- wash has been ta'en away : 
If the Bull-Queen is divested, 
We shall be in every way 

Hunted, stript, exposed, molested 
Let us do whate'er we may, 
That she shall not be arrested. 
Queen, we entrench you with walls oli 
brawn, 
And palisades of tusks, sharp as e 
bayonet : 
Place your most sacred person here> 
We pawn 
Our lives that none a finger dare tc 
lay on it. 
Those who wrong you, wrong us : 
Those who hate you, hate us ; 
Those who sting you, sting us ; 
Those who bait you, bait us ; 
The orrtclc is now about to be 
Fulfilled by circumvolving destiny ; 
Which says : " Thebes, choose reformi 
or civil war, 
When through your streets, instead 

of hare with dogs, 
A Consort Queen shall hunt a.' 
King with hogs. 
Riding upon the IONIAN MINO- 
TAUR." 

jE;?ifC/- lONA TAURINA. 

lona Taurlna {coming forward). 
Gentlemen Swine, and gentle 

Lady-Pigs, 
The tender heart of every Boar acquita 
Their Queen, of any act incongruous 
With native piggishness, and she re-; 

posing 
With confidence upon the grunting; 

nation. 
Has thrown herself, her cause, her life, 

her all, 
Her innocence, into their hoggish 

arms ; 
Nor has the expectation been deceived 
Of finding shelter there. Yet know, 

great Boars 
(For such who ever lives among you 

finds you, 
And so do I), the innocent are proud ! 
I have accepted your protection only 
In compliment of your kind love and 

care, 
Not for necessity. The innocent 
Are safest there where trials and 

dangers wait ; 
Innocent Queen o'er white-hot plough- 
shares tread 
Unsinged, and ladies, Erin's laureate 

sings it, 



SWELLFOOT THE TYUANt. 



i^9i 



)eckt with rare gems, and beauty 

rarer still, 
A^alkt from Killarney to the Giant's 

Causeway, 
i'hro' rebels, smugglers, troops of 

yeomanry, 
/7hite-boys, and Orange-boys, and con- 
I stables, 

.■"ithe-proctors, and excise people, un- 
i injured ! 
.^husl ! — 

jord PuRGANAX, I do commit myself 
nto your custody, and am prepared 
"o stand the test, whenever it may 

be ! 
Purganax. This magnanimity in 

your sacred Majesty 
lust please the Pigs. You cannot 

fail of being 
i. heavenly angel. Smoke your bits of 

glass, 
iTe loyal Swine, or her transfiguration 
Vill blind your wondering eyes. 
An old Boar (aside). Take care, 

my Lord, 
Chey do not smoke you first. 
Purganax. At the approach- 

ing feast 
)f Famine, let the expiation be. 
Swine. Content ! content ! 
lona Taurina (aside). I, most 

content of all, 
inow that my foes even thus prepare 

their fail ! [ Exeunt omncs. 

5CENE II.— The interior of the Tem- 
ple of FAMINE. The statue of the 
Ooddess, a skeleton clothed in party- 
colored rags seated upon a heap of 
sJiidls and loaves intermingled. A 
number of exceedingly fat Priests 
in black garments arrayed on each 
side, with marrow-bones and 
cleavers in their hands. A flourish 
of trumpets. 

^ntcr Mammon as arch-priest, Swell- 
foot, Dakry, Purganax, Laoc- 
TONos, folloived by Iona Taurina 
guarded. On the other side enter 
the Swine. 

Choriis of Priests, accompanied 
by the Court Porkman on marrow 
bones and cleavers. 

Goddess bare, and gaunt, and pale, 

Empress of the world, all hail ! 

What tho' Cretans old called thee 

City-crested Cybele ? 

We call thee Famine ! 
Goddess of fasts, and feasts, starving 
and cramming 1 



Thro' thee, for emperors, kings, and 

priests and lords, 
Who rule by viziers, sceptres, bank- 
notes, words, 
The earth pours forth its plenteous 

fruits. 
Corn, wool, linen, flesh, and roots — 
Those who consume these fruits tho' 
thee grow fat, 
Those who produce these fruits thro' 
thee grow lean, 
Whatever change takes place, oh, stick 
to that ! 
And let things be as they have ever 
been ; 
At least while we remain thy 

priests. 
And proclaim thy fasts and feasts ! 
Thro' thee the sacred Swellfoot 

dynasty 
Is based upon a rock amid that sea 
Whose waves are Swine — so let it ever 
.be ! 

fSwELLFOOT, etc., scat tlicinsclves at 
a table magnificently coriered at the 
upper end of the temple. Attend- 
ants pass over the stage with hog- 
wash in pails. A number of Pigs ex- 
ceedingly lean, follow them licking 
tip the wash. 

Mammon. I fear your scared Maj- 
esty has lost 
The appetite which you were used to 

have. 
Allow me now to recommend this 

di.sh— 
A simple kickshaw by your Persian 

cook. 
Such as is served at the great King's 

second table 
The price and pains which its ingre- 
dients cost. 
Might have maintained some dozen 

families 
A winter or two — not more— .so plain 

a dish 
Would scarcely disagree. 

Swellfoot. After the trial, 

And these fastidious Pigs are gone, 

perhaps 
I may recover my lost appetite, — 
I feel the gout flying about my 

stomach — 
Give me a glass of Maraschino punch. 
Purganax (filling his glass and 
standing up). The glorious con- 
stitution of the Pigs ! 
All. A toast ! a toast ! stand up 

and three times three ! 
Dakn/. No heel-taps — darken day- 
lights !— 



296 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS ; OR 



LcKictono^. ('Uir(it, somehow, 

i'uts me ill mind of blood, and blood 

of claret ! 

SiveUfoot. Laoctonos is fishing for 

a compliment, 

But 't is his due. Yes, you have drunk 

more wine. 
And shed more blood than any man in 
Thebes. 

[To PURGANAX. 

For God's sake stop the grunting of 
those Pigs ! 
Purqanax. We dare not, Sire 't is 
Famine's privilege. 
Chorus of Su-i)u\ 
Hail to thee, hail to thee, Famine ! 
Thy throne is on blood, and thy robe 

is of rags ; 
' Thou devil which livest on damn- 
ing; 
Saint of new churches, and cant, 

and GREEN BAGS, 
Till in pitv and teiror thou risest, 
Confounding the schemes of the 

wisest. 
When tliou liftest the skeleton form, 
When the loaves and the skulls roll 
about, 
We will greet thee— the voice of a 
storm 
Would be lost in our terrible shout ! 

Then hail to thee, hail to thee Fam- 
ine ! 
Hail to thee. Empress of Earth ! 
When thou risest, dividing posses- 
sions ; 
When thou risest, uprooting oppres- 
sions ; 
In the pride of thy ghastly nurth. 
Over palaces, temples, and graves, 
We will rush as thy minister-slaves, 
Trampling behind in thy train. 
Till all be made level again ! 
Mammon. I hear a crackling of 
the giant bones 
Of the dread image, and in the black 
pits . ., 

Which once were eyes, I see two livid 

flames. 
These prodigies are oracular, and show 
The presence of the unseen Deity. 
Mighty events are hastening to their 
doom ! 
Swell foot. I only hear the lean and 
mutinous Swine 
Grunting about the temple. 

Dakry. In a crisis 

Of such" exceeding delicacy, I think 
We ought to put her Majesty, the 

Queen, 
Upon her trial without delay. 



Mammon. THE BAG u 

Is here. * 

Pnrganax. I have rehearsed i 

the entire scene I 

With an ox bladder and some ditch- 1 

water, 
On Lady P.— it cannot fail. {Taking 
up the haq.) Your Majesty 

\T0 SW'ELLFOOT. ; 

In such a filthy business had better 
Stand on one side, lest it should 

sprinkle you, 
A spot or two on me would do no harm, i 
Nay, it might hide the blood, whicht 

the sad genius 
Of the Green Isle has fixt, as by a; 
spell, , f 

Upon my brow— which would stain alll 

its seas,' 
But which those seas could never washl 
away ! 
lona Taurlna. My Lord, I ami 
ready— nay, I am impatient 
To undergo the test. 
[..4 graceful figure in a semi-transpar- 
ent veil passes ^innotired throitghl 
the Temple; the ivord LIBERTY is 
seen tlirough the veil, as if it xecre 
^vrittcn i)i tire upon its foreheadJ 
Its words are almost drowhed^ in the 
fnrions grunting of the Pigs, and 
the business of the trial. She kneels 
on tlirslcjis ofthe Altar, and speaks 
in ttnu's at first faint and low, hui 
which ever hccomc louder and 
louder. 
Mighty Empress ! Death's white 

wife ! 
Ghastly mother-in-law of life ! 
By the God who made thee such, 
By the magic of thy touch. 
By the starving and the cramming, 
Of fasts and feasts ! by thy dread self, 
O Famine ! ' 

I charge thee ! when thou wake the 

multitude 
Thou lead them not upon the paths ol 

blood. 
The earth did never mean her foison 
For those who crown life's cup witli 

poison 

Of fanatic rage and meaningless ret 

venge— | 

But for those radiant spirits, whc| 

are still i 

The standard-bearers in the van oil 

Change. 

Be they th' appointed stewards, U 
fill 
The lap of Pain, and Toil, and Age !— 
Remit, O Queen 1 thy accustomet 
rage ! 



SWELLFOOT THK TYRANT. 



597 



e wliat thou art not ! In voice faint 

and low 
iREEDOM calls FdwinCj—hei- eternal 

p brief alliance, hollow truce.— Rise 

now ! 
Vhilst the Veiled FUjurc has been 
chanting this strophe, Mammon, 
Dakrv, Laoctonos, and Swell- 
foot, have siirronuded loNA Tau- 
RiNA, K'/io, with her hands folded 
on her breast, and her eyes lifted to 
Heaven, stands, as tpith saint-like 
resiiination, to toait the issue of the 
bnsi)iess, inpcrfect confidence of her 
innocence. 

'UKGANAX, after unsealing the 
GREEN BAG, is gravely about to 
pour the H<iuor itpon her hand, 
when suddenhj the whole expression 
of her figure and. countenance 
cliangcs; she sn(tt<'hes it from his 
hand with a loud laugh of triumph, 
and empties it over HixEhtFooT and 
his whole Court, who are instantly 
Khangcdinto a n umber of filthy and 
ugly animals, and rush out of the 
Temple. The i)nage of Famixe t/ic/i 
irises with a. tremendous sound, 
the Pigs begin scrambling for the 
loaves, and are tripped^ up by the 
'^livlls; all those who eat thcloaves 
■(re t}irned into Bulls, and arrange 
■ hemselves qitietly J)eJiind the altar. 
The image of Famine sinks through 
TCliasm in the earth, and a MiNO- 
rAUR rises. 

Minotaur. I am the Ionian Mino- 
taur, the mig-htiest 
all Europa's taurine jirogenv — 
.m the old traditional Man-Bull ; 
id from my ancestors having been 
; Ionian, 

m called Ion, which, by interpreta- 
i tion, 
John ; in plain Theban, that is to 

say, 
' name's John Bull ; I am a famous 

hunter, 
:d can leap any gate in all Bosotia, 
en the palings of tlie royal park, 
double ditch about the new enclo- 
sures ; 
■.d if your Majesty will deign to 

mount me, 
I least till you have hunted down 

your game, 
all not throw you. 
ona TaurimC. (During this speech 
she has been putting on boots 
? and spurs, and a hunting cap, 
buckishly cocked on one side, . 



and tucking up her hair, she 

leaps n imt>ly on li is back. ) Hoa ' 

hoa ! tallyho ! tallyho ! ho ! ho ' 
Come, let us hunt these ugly badgers 

down, 
These stinking foxe.s, these devouring 

otters, 
These hares, these wolves, these any- 
thing but men. 
Hey, for a whipper-in ! mv loyal Pigs, 
Now let your noses be as keen as 

beagles, 
Your steps as swift as greyhounds, 

and your cries 
More dulcet and symphonious than the 

bells 
Of village-towers, on sunshine holiday ; 
Wake all the dewy woods with jangling 

music, 
Give them no law (are they not beasts 

of blood ?) 
But such as they gave you. Tallyho ! 

ho ! 
Thro' forest, furze, and bog, and den, 

and desert, 
Pursue the ugly beasts ! tallyho ! ho ! 
Fidl Chorus of Iona and the Swine. 

Tallyho ! tallyho ! 
Thro' rain, hail, and snow. 
Thro' brake, gorse, and briar, 
Thro' fen, flood, and mire, 
We go ! we go ! 

Tallyho ! tallyho ! 
Thro' pond, ditch, and slough. 
Wind them, and find them. 
Like the Devil behind them, 

Tallyho ! tallyho ! 
[Exeunt, in full cry; Iona driving 
on the Swine, with the empty 
Green Bag. 

THE END, 



NOTE ON CEDIPUS TYRANNUS, 
BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

In the brief journal I kept in those 
days, I find recorded, in August 1820, 
Shelley "begins 'Swellfoot the Ty- 
rant,' suggested by the pigs at the fair 
of San Giuliano." This was the period 
of Queen Caroline's landing in Eng- 
land, and the struggles made by George 
IV. to get rid of her claims ; which 
failmg. Lord Castlereagh placed the 
''Green Bag'' on the table of the 
House of Commons, demanding in the 
King's name that an inquiry should 



298 



EPirSYCHIDION. 



be instituted into his wife's conduct. 
These circumstances were the theme 
of all conversation among the English. 
We were then at the Baths of San 
Giuliano. A friend came to visit us 
on the day when a fair was lield in the 
square beneath our windows : Shelley 
read to us his " Ode to Liberty ; " and 
was riotously accompanied by the 
grunting of a quantity of pigs brought 
for sale to the fair. He compared it to 
the " chorus of frogs" in the satiric 
drama of Aristophanes ;' and, it being 
an hour of merriment, and one ludic- 
rous association suggesting another, 
he imagined a political-satirical drama 
on the circumstances of the day, to 
which the pigs would serve as chorus 
—and " Swullfoot" was begun. When 
finished, it was transmitted to Eng- 
land, printed, and published anony- 
mously ; but stifled at the very dawn 
of its existence by the Society for the 
Suppression of Vice, wlio threatened 
to prosecute it, if not immediately 
withdrawn. The friend who had taken 
the trouble of bringing it out, of course, 
did not think it worth the annoyance 
and expense of a contest, and it was 
laid aside. 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 
VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE 
AND UNFORTUNATE LADY, EMILIA 

V , 

NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT 
OF 

L'anima amante si slancia fuori del 
creato, e si crea nel infinito uu Mondo tutto 
per essa, diverse assai da questo oscuro e 
pauroso baratro. 

Her own words. 

My Song, I fear that thou wilt find 
but f ew 

AVho fitly shall conceive thy reasoning, 

Of such hard matter dost thou enter- 
tain ; 

Whence, if by misadventure, chance 
should bring 

Thee to base company (as chance may 
do), 

Quite unaware of what thou dost con- 
tain, 

I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again. 

My last delight ! tell them that they 
are dull, 

And bid them own that thou art beau- 
tiful. 



EPIPSYX^HIDION. 

SWEET Spirit ! Sister of that orphan 

one. 
Whose empire is the name thou weep- 

est on. 
In my heart's temple I suspend to thee 
These votive wreaths of withered 

memory. 

Poor captive bird ! who, from thy 
narrow cage, 

Pourest such music, that it might as- 
suage 

The rugged hearts of those who pris- 
oned thee, 

Were they not deaf to all sweet mel- 
ody ; 

This song shall be thy rose : its petals 
pale 

Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightin 
gale ! 

But soft and fragrant is the fadec 
blossom. 

And it has no thorn left to wound thy 
bosom. 

High, spirit-winged Heart ! who dosv 

forever 
Beat thine unfeeling bars with vaiii 

endeavor, j 

Till those bright plumes of thought, iir 

which arrayed . 

It over-soared this low and worldh! 

shade, 
Lie shattered ; and thy panting. 

wounded breast 
Stains with dear blood its unmaterna; 

nest ! ' 

I weep vain tears : blood would les. 

bitter be. 
Yet poured forth gladlier, could 1 

profit thee. 

Seraph of Heaven ! too gentle to b- 

human, ' 

Veiling beneath that radiant form o. 

Woman 
All that is insupportable in thee 
Of light, and love, and immortality I 
Sweet Benediction in the etermJ 

Curse ! 1 

Veiled Glory of this lampless UniA'erse. 
Thou Moon beyond the clouds ! Tho^ 

living Form 
Among the Dead ! Thou Star abov 

the Storm ! ' 

Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, an^ 

thou Terror ! 
Thou Harmony of Nature's art ! The, 

Mirror j 

In whom, as in the splendor of the Sui| 



EPIFSYCHIDION. 



299 



Vll shapes look g-lorious which thou 
gazest on ! 

^y, even the dim words which obscure 
time now 

i'lash, lightning-like, with unaccus- 
tomed glow ; 
pray thee that thou blot from this 
sad song 

Ul of its nmch mortality and wrong, 

Vith those clear drops, which start 
like sacred dew 

'Yom the twin lights thy sweet soul 
darkens thro', 

Veeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy : 

'hen smile on it, so that it may not die. 



I never thought before my death to 

see 
outh's vision thus made perfect. 

Emily, 
love thee ; tho' the world by no thin 

name 
Vill hide that love, from its unvalued 

shame. 
V^ould we two had been twins of the 

same mother! 
'r, that the name my heart lent to 

another 
ould be a sister's bond for her and 

thee, 
lending two beams of one eternity ! 
'et were one lawful and the other 

true, 
hese names, tho' dear, could paint 

I not, as is due, 

LOW beyond refuge I am thine. Ah 

i me ! 

am not thine : I am a part of tlicc. 

Sweet Lamp ! my moth-like Muse 

has burnt its wings ; 
r, like a dying swan who soars and 

sings, 
'oung Love should teach Time, in his 

own gray style, 

II that thou art. Art thou not void 

of guile, 
lovely soul formed to be blest and 

bless ? 
well of sealed and secret happiness, 
/"hose waters like blithe light and 

music are, 
anquishing dissonance and gloom ? 

A Star 
*"hich moves not in the moving Heav- 
ens, alone v 
smile amid dark frowns ? a gentle 
tone 
mid rude voices ? a beloved light ? 
Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight ? 



A Lute, which those whom Love has 

taught to play 
Make music on, to .soothe the roughest 

day 
And lull fond grief asleep ? a buried 

treasure ? 
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless 

pleasure ; 
A violet- shrouded grave of Woe ?— I 

measure 
The world of fancies, seeking one like 

thee, 
And find— alas! mine own infirmity. 

She met me. Stranger, upon life's 
rough way. 
And lured me towards sweet Death ; as 

Night by Day, 
Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift 

Hope, 
Led into light, life, peace. An ante- 
lope, 
In the suspended impulse of its light- 
ness. 
Were less ethereally light : the bright- 
ness 
Of her divinest presence trembles thro' 
Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of 

dew 
Embodied in the windless Heaven of 

June 
Amid the splendor-winged stars, the 

Moon 
Burns, inextinguishably beautiful • 
And from her lips, as from a hyacinth 

full 
Of honej'-dew, a liquid murmur drops. 
Killing the sense with passion ; sweet 

as stops 
Of planetary music heard in trance. 
In her mild lights the starry spirits 

dance. 
The sunbeams of those wells which ever 

leap 
Under the lightnings of the soul— too 

deep 
For the brief fathom-line of thought or 

sense. 
The glory of her being, issuing thence, 
Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a 

warm shade 
Of unentangled intermixture, made 
By Love, of light and motion : one in- 
tense 
Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence, 
Whose flowing outlines mingle in their 

flowing 
Around her cheeks and utmost fingers 

glowing 
With the unintermitted blood, which 
there 



300 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



Quivers (a:=; in a fleece of snow-lilce air 
The crimson pulse of living morning 

quiver), 
Continuously prolonged, and ending 

never, 
Till they are lost, and in that Beauty 

furled , ^„ 

Which penetrates and clasps and Wis 

the world ; 
Scarce visible from extreme lovelmess. 
AVarm fragrance seems to fall from her 

light dress 
And her loose hair ; and where some 

heavy tress 
The air of her own speed has disen- 

twined. 
The sweetness seems to satiate the 

faint wind ; 
And in the soul a wild odor is felt, 
Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that 

Into the bosom of a frozen bud.— 
See where she stands ! a mortal shape 

indued , , .^ 

With love and life and light and deity, 
And motion which may change but can 

not die ; 
An image of some bright Eternity ; 
A shadow of some golden dream ; a 

Splendor 
Leaving the third sphere pilotless ; a 

tender 
Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love 
Under whose motions life's dull billows i 

move ; 
A Metaphor of Spring and Youth and 

Morning ; 
A Vision like incarnate April, warning. 
With smiles and tears, Frost the 

Anatomy 
Into his summer grave. 

Ah, woe is me ! 
What have I dared ? where am I lifted ? 

how 
Shall I descend, and perish not ? I know 
That Love makes all things equal : I 

have heard 
By mine own heart this joyous truth 

averred : 
The spirit of the worm beneath the sod 
In love and worship blends itself with 

God. 

Spouse ! Sister ! Angel ! Pilot of 

the Fate 
Whose course has been so starless ! 

Oh, too late 
Beloved ! Oh, too soon adored, by me ! 
For in the fields of immortality 
My spirit should at first have worshipt 

thine, 



A divine presence in a place divine : 
Or should have moved beside it on this 

earth, 
A shadow of that substance, from it.*- 

birth : 
But not as now :— I love thee ; yes, ] 

feel 
That on the fountain of my heart a seai 
Is set, to keep its waters pure and 

bright 
For thee, since in those tears thou hast 

delight. 
-\Ve_are we not formed, as notes ot 

music are, 
For one another, tho' dissimilar ; 
Such difference without discord, as can 

make 
Those sweetest sounds, in which ali 

spirits shake 
As trembling leaves in a continuou' 

air? 

Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bid 

me dare 
Beacon the rocks on which high heart 

are wreckt. 
I never was attached to that great sect 
Whose doctrine is, that each one shoult 

select 
Out of the crowd a mistress or a frieno 
And all the rest, tho' fair and wist 

commend 
To cold oblivion, tho' it is in the codi 
Of modern morals, and the beaten roa; 
Which those poor slaves with wear.!, 

footstep tread, • 

Who travel to their home among tli 

dead 
By the broad highway of the worh 

and so 
With one chained friend, perhaps ■] 

jealous foe, | 

The dreariest and the longest journe ] 

go. 

True Love in this differs from go 
and clay, 
That to divide is not to take away. i 
Love is like understanding, that grov j 

Gazing on many truths ; 't is like tl [ 

light, ^ |! 

Imagination ! which from earth aii 

sky ' 

And f rona the depths of human fantas 
As from a thousand prisms and mirroi ■} 

fills 1 

The Universe with glorious beams, ai n 

kills ... 1 

Error, the worm, with many a sunli 

arrow ■' 

' Of its reverberated lightning. Narrc 



EPIPSYCHIDIOlSr. 



301 



The heai't that loves, the brain that 
contemplates, 

The life that wears, the spirit that cre- 
ates 

One object, and one form, and builds 
thereby 

A sepulchre for its eternity. 

Mind from its object differs most in 
this : 

Evil from good : misery from happi- 
ness ; 

iThe baser from the nobler ; the impure 

And frail, from what is clear and must 
endure. 

If you divide suffering and dross, you 
may 

Diminish till it is consumed away ; 

[f you divide pleasure and love and 

' thought. 

Each part exceeds the whole ; and we 
know not 

How much, while any yet remains un- 
shared, 

Dt pleasure may be gained, of sorrow 
spared : 

This truth is that deep well, whence 
sages draw 

The unenvied light of hope ; the eter- 
nal law 

By which those live, to whom this 
world of life 

[s as a garden ravaged, and whose 
strife 

Tills for the pi'omise of a later birth 

The wilderness of this Elysian earth. 

There was a Being whom my spirit 
oft 

Met on its visioned wanderings, far 
aloft, 

in the clear golden prime of my youth's 
dawn, 

Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn. 

Amid the enchanted mountains, and 
the caves 

3f divine sleep, and on the air-like 
waves 

Df wonder-level dream, whose tremu- 
lous floor 

Paved her light steps ; — ou an im- 
agined shore, 

Under the gray beak of some promon- 
tory 

She met me, robed in such exceeding 
glory, 

fFhat I beheld her not. In solitudes 

Her voice came to me thro' the whis- 

i pering woods, 

[And from the fountains, and the odors 

I deep 



Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring 

in their sleep 
Of the sweet kisses which had lulled 

them there. 
Breathed but of her to the enamoured 

air ; 
And from the breezes whether low or 

loud. 
And from the rain of every passing 

cloud. 
And from the singing of the summer 

birds. 
And from all sounds, all silence. In 

the words 
Of antique verse and high romance,— 

in form, 
Sound, color — in whatever checks that 

Storm 
Which with the shattered present 

chokes the past ; 
And in that best philosophy, whose 

taste 
Makes this cold common hell, our life, 

a doom 
As glorious as a flery martyrdom ; 
Her Spirit was the harmony of 

truth- 
Then, from the caverns of my 

dreamy youth 
I sprang, as one sandalled with plumes 

of fire, 
And towards the loadstar of my one 

desire, 
I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose 

flight 
Is as a dead leaf's in the owlet light, 
When it would seek in Hesper's setting 

sphere 
A radiant death, a fiery sepulchre, 
As if it were a lamp of earthly 

flame.— 
But She, whom prayers or tears then 

could not tame. 
Past, like a God throned ou a winged 

planet, 
Whose burning plumes to tenfold 

swiftness fan it. 
Into the dreary cone of our life's 

shade ; 
And as a man with mighty loss dis- 
mayed, 
I would have followed, tho' the grave 

between 
Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are 

unseen : 
When a voice said : — " O Thou of 

hearts the weakest. 
The phantom is beside thee whom thou 

seekest." 
Then I— "Where?" the world's echo 

answered "where ! " 



302 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



And in that silence, and in my de- 
spair, 
I questioned every tongueless wind 

tliat flew 
Over my tower of mourning, if it 

knew 
Wliitlior 't was fled, this soul out of my 

soul ; 
And murmured names and spells which 

have control 
Over the sightless tyrants of our fate ; 
But neither prayer nor verse could 

dissipate 
The night which closed on her ; nor 

imcreate 
That world within this Chaos, mine 

and me, 
Of which she was the veiled Divinity, 
The woi'ld I say of thoughts that wor- 

shipt her : 
And therefore I went forth, with hope 

and fear 
And every gentle passion sick to 

death. 
Feeding my course with expectation's 

breath. 
Into the wintry forest of our life ; 
And struggling thro' its error with 

^ ain strife. 
And stumbling in my weakness and my 

haste. 
And half bewildered by new forms, i 

past 
Seeking among those untaught for- 
esters 
If I could find one form resembling 

hers. 
In which she might have maskt her- 
self from me. 
There,— One, whose voice was venomed 

melody 
Sate by a well, under blue nightshade 

bowers ; 
The breath of her false mouth was 

like faint flowers, 
Her touch was as electric poison,— 

flame 
Out of her looks into my vitals came, 
And from her living cheeks and bosom 

flew 
A killing air, which pierced like honey- 
dew 
Into the core of my green heart, and 

lay 
Upon its leaves ; until, as hair grown 

gray 
O'er a young brow, they hid its nn- 

biowu prime 
With ruins of unreasonable time. 

In many mortal forms I rashly 
sought 



The shadow of that idol of my thought. 
And some were fair— but beauty dies 

away : 
Others were wise— but honeyed words 

betray : 
And One was true— oh ! why not true 

to me ? 
Then, as a hunted deer that could not' 

flee, 
I turned upon my thoughts, and stood 

at bay. 
Wounded and weak and panting ; thei 

cold day 
Trembled, for pity of my strife andi 

pain. 
When, like a noonday dawn, therei 

shone again 
Deliverance. One stood on my pathl 

who seemed 
As like the glorious shape which I hadi 

dreamed. 
As is the Moon, whose changes ever, 

run 
Into themselves, to the eternal Sun ; 
The cold chaste Moon, the Queen oli 

Heaven's bright isles. 
Who makes all beautiful on which shei 

smiles. 
That wandering shrine of soft yet icy; 

flame 
Which ever is transformed, yet still the^ 

same. 
And warms not but illumines. Young, 

and fair 
As the descended Spirit of that sphere,. 
She hid me, as the Moon may hide the 

night 
From its own darkness, until all wasi 

bright 
Between the Heaven and Earth of m> 

calm mind. 
And, as a cloud charioted by the wind. 
She led me to a cave in that wildi 

place. 
And sate beside me, with her down 

ward face 
Illumining my slumbers, like tlu 

Moon 
Waxing and waning o'er Endymion. 
As I was laid asleep, spirit and limb. 
And all my being became bright oi 

dim I 

As the Moon's image in a summer sea. , 
According as she smiled or frowned or ' 

me ; 
And there I lay, within a chaste colcl 

bed : ], 

Alas, I then was nor alive nor dead :-if 
For at her silver voice came Death an( 

Life, 
Unmindful each of their accustome( 

strife. 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



303 



Maskt llko twin babes, a sister and a 

; brother, 

The wandering hopes of one abandoned 

mother, 
And thro' the cavern without wings 

they flew, 
And cried "Away, he is not of our 
1^ crew." 
I wept, and tho' it be a dream, I 

weep. 

What storms then shook the ocean 

of my sleep. 
Blotting that Moon, whose pale and 

waning lips 
Then shrank as in the sickness of 

eclipse ; — 
^nd how my soul was as a lampless 

sea, 
And who was then its Tempest ; and 

when She, 
The Planet of that hour, was quencht, 

what frost 
rept o'er those waters, till from coast 
. to coast 

The moving billows of my being fell 
[nto a death of ice, immovable; — 
^nd then— what earthquakes made it 

gape and split, 
the white Moon smiling all the while 

on it. 
These words conceal :— If not, each 

word would be 
The key of stanchless tears. Weep not 

for me ! 

At length, into the obscure Forest 

came. 
The Vision I had sought thro' grief and 

shame, 
ithwart that wintry wilderness of 

thorns 
piasht from her motion splendor like 

the Morn's, 
Vnd from her presence life was 

radiated 
^""hro' the gray earth and branches bare 

and dead ; 
)0 that her way was paved, and rooft 

above 
^ith flowers as soft as thoughts of 

budding love ; 
^nd music from her respiration spread 
.iike light,— all other sounds were pen- 
etrated 
3y the small, still, sweet spirit of that 

sound, 
)0 that the savage winds hung mute 

around ; 
\.nd odors warm and fresh fell from 

her hair 
)issolving the dull cold in the f rore air : 



Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun, 

When light is changed to love, this 
glorious One 

Floated into the cavern where I lay, 

And called my Spirit, and the dream- 
ing clay 

Was lifted by the thing that dreamed 
below 

As smoke by fire, and in her beauty's 
glow 

I stood, and felt the dawn of my long 
night 

Was penetrating me with living light: 

I knew it was the Vision veiled from 
me 

So many years— that it was Emily. 

Twin Spheres of light who rule this 

passive Earth, 
This world of love, this mc ; and into 

birth 
Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and 

dart 
Magnetic might into its central heart; 
And lift its billows and its mists, and 

guide 
By everlasting laws, each wind and 

tide 
To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave; 
And lull its storms, each in the craggy 

grave 
Which was its cradle, luring to faint 

bowers 
The armies of the rainbow-winged 

showers ; 
And, as those married lights, which 

from the towers 
Of Heaven look forth and fold the 

wandering globe 
In liquid sleep and splendor, as a robe; 
And all their many-mingled influence 

blend, 
If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet 

end ;— 
So ye, bright regents, with alternate 

sway 
Govern my sphere of being, night and 

day ! 
Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed 

might ; 
Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light ; 
And, thro' the shadows of the seasons 

three, 
From Spring to Autumn's sere matu- 
rity, 
Light it into the Winter of the tomb, 
Where it may ripen to a brighter 

bloom. 
Thou too, O Comet beautiful and fierce, 
Who drew the heart of this frail Uni- 
verse 



30-i 



EPIPRYCHIDION. 



Towards; thine own ; till, wreckt in 

that convulsion, 
Alternating attraction and I'epulsion, 
Thine went astray and that was rent 

in twain ; 
Oh, float into our azure heaven again ! 
Be there love's folding-star at thj- re- 
turn ; 
The living Sun will feed thee from its 

urn 
Of golden fire ; the Moon will veil her 

horn 
In thy last smiles ; adoring Even and 

"^Morn 
Will worship thee with incense of calm 

breath 
And lights and shadows : as the star 

of Death 
And Birth is worshipt by those sisters 

wild 
Called Hope and Fear— upon the heart 

are piled 
Their offerings,— of this sacrifice divine 
A World shall be the altar. 

Lady mine, 
Scorn not these flowers of thought, the 

fading birth 
Which from its heart of hearts that 

plant puts forth 
Whose fruit, made perfect by thy 

sunny eyes. 
Will be as of the trees of Paradise. 



The day is come, and thou wilt fly 
with me. 

To whatsoe'er of dull mortality 

Is mine, remain a vestal sister still ; 

To the intense, the deep, the imperish- 
able. 

Not mine but me, henceforth be thou 
united 

Even as a bride, delighting and de- 
lighted. 

The hour is come :— the destined Star 
has risen 

Which shall descend upon a vacant 
prison. 

The walls are high, the gates are 
strong, thick set 

The sentinels— but true love never yet 

Was thus constrained : it overleaps all 
fence : 

Like lightning, with invisible violence 

Piercing its continents ; like Heaven's 
free breath. 

Which he who grasps can hold not ; 
liker Death, 

Who rides upon a thought, and makes 
his way 

Thro' temple, tower, and palace, and 
the array 



Of arms : more strength has Love than 

he or they ; 
For it can burst its charnel, and make 

free 
The limbs in chains, the heart in agony, 
The soul in dust and chaos. 

Emily, 
A ship is floating in the harbor now, 
A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's 

brow ; 
There is a path on the sea's azure floor, 
No keel has ever ploughed that path 

before ; 
The halcyons brood around the foam- 
less isles ; 
The treacherous Ocean has forsworn 

its wiles ; 
The merry mariners are bold and free: 
Saj', my heart's sister, wilt thou sail 

with me ? 
Our bark is as an albatross, who.se nest 
Is a far Eden of the purple East ; 
And we between her wings will sit, 

while Night 
And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue 

their flight, 
Our ministers, along the boundless Sea, 
Treading each other's heels, unheed- 

edly. 
Is it an isle under Ionian skies, 
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise, 
And, for the harbors are not safe and 

good. 
This land would have remained a .soli- 
tude 
But for some pastoral people native 

there. 
Who from the Elysian, clear, and 

golden air 
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, 
Simple and spirited, innocent and bold. 
The blue ^gean girds this chosen 

home, 
With ever-changing sound and light 

and foam, 
Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns 

hoar ; 
And all the winds wandering along the 

shore 
Undulate with the undulating tide : 
There are thick woods where sylvan 

forms abide ; 
And many a fountain, rivulet, and 

pond. 
As clear as elemental diamond. 
Or serene morning air ; and far beyond. 
The mossy tracks made by the goats 

Riid d66r 
(Which the rough shepherd treads but 

once a year). 
Pierce into glades, caverns, and 

bowers, and halls 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



305 



Built round with ivy, which the water- 
falls 

Illumining, with sound that never fails 

Accompany the noonday nightingales ; 

And all the place is peopled with 
sweet airs ; 

The light clear element which the isle 
wears 

[s heavy with the scent of lemon- 
flowers, 

Which floats like mist laden with un- 
seen showers 

lud falls upon the eyelids like faint 
sleep ; 

\nd from the moss violets and jonquils 
peep, 

Vnd dart their arrowy odor thro' the 
brain 

rill you might faint with that de- 
licious pain. 

^nd every motion, odor, beam, and 
tone, 

Vith that deep music is in unison : 

Vhich is a soul within the soul— they 
seem 

jike echoes of an antenatal dream.— 

t is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, 
and Sea, 

Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity ; 

(right as that wandering Eden Luci- 
fer, 

Tasht by the soft blue Oceans of young 
air. 

t is a favored place. Famine or Blight, 

•estilence, "War, and Earthquake, 
never light 

Tpon its mountain-peaks ; blind vul- 
tures, they 

ail onward far upon their fatal way : 

he winged storms, chanting their 
thunder-psalm 

other lands, leave azure chasms of 

calm 
ver this isle, or weep themselves in 

dew, 
irom which its fields and woods ever 
'■ renew 

Jheir green and golden immortality, 
nd from the sea there rise, and from 
' the sky 
here fall, clear exhalations, soft and 

1 bright, 
eil after veil, each hiding some 

delight, 
''hich Sun or Moon or zephyr draw 

aside, 
11 the isle's beauty, like a naked bride 
towing at once with love and loveli- 
ness, 
ushes and trembles at its own excess : 
et, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less 
arns in the heart of this delicious isle, 
20 



An atom of the Eternal, whose own 

smile 
Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not 

seen 
O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and 

forests green, 
Filling their bare and void interstices.— 
But the chief marvel of the wilderness 
Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or 

how 
None of the rustic island-people know : 
'T is not a tower of strength, tho' witli 

its height 
It overtops the woods ; but, for delight, 
Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere 

crime 
Had been invented, in the world's 

young prime, 
Reared it, a wonder of that simple time, 
An envy of the isle.s, a pleasure-house 
Made sacred to his sister and his spouse. 
It scarce seems now a wreck of human 

art, 
But, as it were Titanic ; in the heart 
Of Earth having assumed its form, 

then grown 
Out of the mountains, from the living 

stone. 
Lifting itself in caverns light and high : 
For all the antique and learned im- 
agery 
Has been erased, and in the place of it 
The ivy and the wild-vine interknit 
The volumes of their many-twining 

stems ; 
Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems 
The lampless halls, and when they fade, 

the sky 
Peeps through their winter-woof of 

tracei-y 
With moonlight patches, or star-atoms 

keen. 
Or fragments of the day's intense se- 
rene ;— 
"Working mosaic on the Parian floors. 
And, day and night, aloof, from the 

high towers 
And terraces, the Earth and Ocean 

seem 
To sleep in one another's arms, and 

dream 
Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, 

rocks, and all that we 
Read in their smiles, and call reality. 

This isle and house are mine, and I 

have vowed 
Thee to be lady of the solitude.— 
And I have fitted up some chambers 

there 
Looking towards the golden Eastern 

air. 



30G 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



And level with the living winds, which 
flow 

Like waves above the living waves be- 
low.-— 

I have sent books and music there, 
and all 

Those instruments with which high 
spirits call 

The future from its cradle, and the 
past 

Out of its grave, and make the present 
last 

In thoughts and joys which sleep, but 
cannot die. 

Folded within their own eternity. 

Our simple life wants little, and true 
taste 

Hires not the pale drudge Luxury, to 
waste 

The scene it would adorn, and there- 
fore still. 

Nature, with all her children, haunts 
the hill. 

The ring-dove, in the embowering ivy, 
yet 

Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls 
flit 

Round the evening tower, and the 
young stars glance 

Between the quick bats in their twi- 
light dance ; 

The spotted deer bask in the fresh 
moonlight 

Before our gate, and the slow, silent 
night 

Is measured by the pants of their calm 
sleep. 

Be this our home in life, and when 
years heap 

Their Avithered hours, like leaves, on 
our decay, 

Let us become the overhanging day. 

The living soul of this Elysian isle. 

Conscious, inseparable, one. Mean- 
while 

We two will rise, and sit, and walk to- 
gether, 

Under the roof of blue Ionian weather. 

And wander in the meadows, or ascend 

The mossy mountains, where the blue 
heavens bend 

With lightest winds, to touch their 
paramour ; 

Or linger, where the pebble-paven 
shore. 

Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea 

Trembles and sparkles as with ec- 
stasy, — 

I'ossessing and possest by all that is 

Within that calm circumference of 
bliss. 

And by each other, till to love and live 



Be one :— or, at the noontide hour, 

arrive 
Where some old cavern hoar seems yet 

to keep 
The moonlight of the expired night 

asleep. 
Thro' which the awakened day cam 

never peep ; 
A veil for our seclusion, close as 

Night's, 
Where secure sleep may kili thine inno- 
cent lights ; 
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love,, 

the rain 
Whose drops quench kisses till they, 

burn again. 
And we will talk, until thought's 

melody 
Become too sweet for utterance, and 

Lt die 
In words, to live again in looks, which 

dart 
With thrilling tone into the voiceless- 
heart. 

Harmonizing silence without a sound. 
Our breath shall intermix, our bosomsi 

bound. 
And our veins beat together ; and oun 

lips 
With other eloquence than words,; 

eclipse 
The soul that burns between themy 

and the wells 
Which boil under our being's inmost 

cells. 
The fountains of our deepest life, shall 

be 
Confused in passion's golden purity. 
As mountain-springs under the morn-i 

ins Sun. k 

We shall become the same, we shall b{ |' 

one I, 

Spirit within two frames, oh ! where'' 

fore two ? 
One passion in twin-hearts, whicl,. 

grows and grew, 
Till like two meteors of expanding L 

flame, ' 

Those spheres instinct with it becomtj. 

the same, ii 

Touch, mingle, are transfigured : eve 

still 
Burning, yet ever inconsumable : 
In one another's substance finding food :•' 
Like flames too pure and light and un 

imbued 
To nourish their oright lives with base 

prey. 
Which point to Heaven and can no 

pass away : 1^ 

One hope within two wills, one wi] " 

beneath 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



307 



Two overshadowiug minds, one life, 

one death, 
One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality, 
A.nd one annihilation. Woe is me ! 
The winged words on which my soul 

would pierce 
[nto the height of love's rare Universe, 
Are chains of lead around its flight of 

fire— 
[ pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire ! 



Weak Verses, go, kneel at your 

Sovereign's feet, 
knd say : — " We are the masters of thy 

slave ; 
What wouldest thou with us and ours 

and thine ? " 
Then call your sisters from Oblivion's 

cave, 
A.1I singing loud : ' ' Love's very pain Is 

sweet. 

But its reward is in the world divine 
Which, if not here, it builds beyond 

the grave." 
3o shall ye live when I am there. 

Then haste 
Dver the hearts of men, until ye meet 
Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest, 
And bid them love each other and be 

blest ; 
A.nd leave the troop which errs, and 

which reproves, 
A.nd come and be my guest, — for I am 

Love's. 

FRAGMENTS CONNECTED 
WITH EPIPSYCHIDION. 

Here, my dear friend, is a new book 

for you ; 
[ have already dedicated two 
To other friends, one female and one 

male, — 
What you are is a thing that I must 

veil ; 
What can this be to those who praise 

or rail ? 

[ never was attacht to that great sect 
Whose doctrine is that each one should 

select 
3ut of the world a mistress or a friend, 
A-ud all the rest, tho' fair and wise, 
I commend 

ro cold oblivion — tho' 't is in the code 
3f modern morals, and the beaten 

road 
Which those poor slaves with weary 

footsteps tread . 
Who travel to their home among the 

dead 



By the broad highway of the world— 
and so 

With one sad friend, and many a jeal- 
ous foe, 

The dreariest and the longest journey 
go. 

Free love has this, diff'erent from 

gold and clay, 
That to divide is not to take away. 
Like ocean, which the general north 

wind breaks 
Into ten thousand waves, and each one 

makes 
A mirror of the moon — like some great 

glass. 
Which did distort whatever form 

might pass, 
Dasht into fragments by a playful 

child, 
Which then reflects its eyes and fore- 
head mild ; 
Giving for one, which it could ne'er 

express, 
A thousand images of loveliness. 

If I were one whom the loud world 

held wise, 
I should disdain to quote authorities 
In commendation of this kind of love : — 
Why there is first the God in heaven 

above. 
Who wrote a book called Nature, 't is 

to be 
Reviewed, I hear, in the next Quar- 
terly ; 
And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of 

Greece, 
And Jesus Christ himself did never 

cease 
To urge all living things to love each 

other. 
And to foi-give their mutual faults, 

and smother 
The Devil of disunion in their souls. 

I love you ! — Listen, O embodied Ray 
Of the great Brightness ; I must pass 

away 
While you remain, and these light 

words must be 
Tokens by which you may remember 

me. 
Start not — the thing you are is unbe- 

trayed. 
If you are human, and if but the shade 
Of some sublimer spirit. 

And as to friend or mistress, 't is a 

form ; 
Perhaps I wish you were one. Some 

declare 



308 



EPIPSYCHIDIOK". 



You a familial- spirit, as you are ; 

Others with a more inhuman 

Hint that, tho' not my wife, you are a 
woman, 

What is the color of your eyes and hair ? 

Why, if you were a lady, it were fair 

The world should know— but, as I am 
afraid, 

The Quarterly would bait you if be- 
trayed ; 

And if, as it will be sport to see them 
stumble 

Over all sorts of scandals, hear them 
mumble 

Their litany of curses— some guess 
right,' 

And others swear you 're a Hermaph- 
rodite ; 

Like that sweet marble monster of 
both sexes. 

With looks so sweet and gentle that it 
vexes 

The very soul that the soul is gone 

Which Hfted from her limbs the veil 
of stone. 



It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear 

balm, 
A happy and auspicious bird of calm. 
Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous 

Ocean ; 
A God that broods o'er chaos in com- 
motion ; 
A flower which fresh as Lapland roses 

are. 
Lifts its bold head into the world's 

frore air, 
And blooms most radiantly when 

others die. 
Health, hope, and youth, and brief 

prosperity : 
And with the light and odor of its 

bloom, 
Shining within the dungeon and the 

tomb ; 
Whose coming is as light and music are 
Mid dissonance and gloom— a star 
Which moves not mid the moving 

heavens alone — 
A smile among dark frowns— a gentle 

tone 
Among rude voices, a beloved light, 
A solitude, a refuge, a delight. 
If I had but a friend ! Why, I have 

three 
Even by my own confession ; there 

may be 
Some more, for what I know, for 't is 

my mind 
To call my friends all who are wise and 

kind, — 



And these. Heaven knows, at best are 

very few ; 
But none can ever be more dear than 

you. 
Why should they be? My muse has 

lost her wings, 
Or like a dying swan who soars and 

sings, 
I should describe you in heroic style, 
But as it is, are you not void of guile ? 
A lovely soul, formed to be blest and 

bless : 
A well of sealed and secret happiness ; 
A lute which those whom Love has 

taught to play 
Make music on to cheer the roughest 

day, 
And enchant sadness till it sleeps ? 

To the oblivion whither I and thou. 
All loving and all lovely, hasten now 
With steps, ah, too unequal ! may we 

meet 
In one Elysium or one winding sheet ! 

If any should be curious to discover 
Whether to you I am a friend or lover, 
Let them read Shakespeare's sonnets, j 

taking thence 
A whetstone for their dull intelligence 
That tears and will not cut, or let them i 

guess 
How Diotima, the wise prophetess, 
Instructed the instructor, and why he 
Rebuked the infant .spirit of melody 
On Agathon's sweet lips, which as he ; 

spoke 
Was as the lovely star when morn haS; 

broke 
The roof of darkness, in the golden 

dawn. 
Half-hidden, and yet beautiful. 

I'll pawn 
My hopes of Heaven— you know what 

they are worth — 
That the presumptuous pedagogues of 

Earth, 
If they could tell the riddle offered here 
Would scorn to be, or being to appear 
What now they seem and are— but let 

them chide. 
They have few pleasures in the world 

beside ; 
Perhaps we should be dull were we not 

chidden, 
Paradise fruits are sweetest when for- 
bidden. 
Folly can season Wisdom, Hatred Love, 

Farewell, if it can be to say farewell 
To those who— 



ADONAIS. 



309 



I will not, as most dedicators do, 

Assure myself and all the world and 
you, 

That you are faultless — would to God 
they were 

Who taunt me with your love ! I then 
should wear 

These heavy chains of life with a light 
spirit, 

And would to God I were, or even as 
near it 

As you, dear heart. Alas ! what are 
we ? Clouds 

Driven by the wind in warring multi- 
tudes, 

Which rain into the bosom of the 
earth. 

And rise again, and in our death and 
birth, 

And thro' our restless life, take as 
from heaven 

Hues which are not our own, but which 
are given. 

And then withdrawn, and with incon- 
stant glance 

Plash from the spirit to the counte- 
nance. 

There is a Power, a Love, a Joy, a God 

Which makes in mortal hearts its brief 
abode, 

A Pythian exhalation, which inspires 

Love, only love— a wind which o'er the 
wires 

Of the soul's giant harp- 
There is a mood which language faints 
beneath ; 

You feel it striding, as Almighty Death 

His bloodless steed. 



And what is that most brief and bright 

delight 
Which rushes through the touch and 

through the sight, 
And stands before the spirit's inmost 

tlirone, 
A naked Seraph ? None hath ever 

known. 
Its birth is darkness, and its growth 

desire ; 
Untameable and fleet and fierce as fire. 
Not to be touched but to be felt alone, 
It fills the world with glory— and is 

gone. 

It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the 

stream 
Of life, which flows, like a dream 

Into the light of morning, to the grave 
As to an ocean. 



What is that joy which serene infancy 
Perceives not, as the hours content 

them by. 
Each in a chain of blossoms, yet enjoys 
The shapes of this new world, in giant 

toys 
Wrought by the busy ever new? 
Remembrance borrows Fancy's glass, 

to show 
These forms more sincere 

Than now they are, than then, per- 
haps, they were. 
When everything familiar seemed to be 
Wonderful, and the immortality 
Of this great world, which all things 

must inherit. 
Was felt as one with the awakening 

spirit. 
Unconscious of itself, and of the 

strange 
Distinctions which in its proceeding 

change 
It feels and knows, and mourns as if 

each were 
A desolation. 

Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily, 

For all those exiles from the dull in- 
sane 

Who vex this pleasant world with pride 
and pain, 

For all that band of sister-spirits 
known 

To one another by a voiceless tone ? 



ADONAIS. 

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN 
KEATS, AUTHOR OF ENDYMION, 
HYPERION, Etc. 

'Xarrjp Trpti' fjiev rjXaixire^ ^vi ^ujoto'tv *E(oo5* 
NCt' 6e davuiv A.d|ii7r€is'Eo-irepos iv <^9ineVois' 

Plato. 
ADONAIS 



I WEEP for Adonais— he is dead ! 
Oh weep for Adonais ! tho' our tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so 

dear a head ! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from 

all years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure 

compeers. 
And teach them thine own sorrow ! 

Say : " With me 
Died Adonais ; till the future dares 



310 



ADONAIS. 



Forget the Past, his fate and fame 
shall be 
An echo and a light unto eternity ' " 



II. 

Where wert thou mighty Mother, 

when he lay, 
When thy Son lay, pierced by the 

shaft which flies 
In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died ? With veiled 

eyes. 
Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 
She sate, while one, with soft enam- 
oured breath. 
Rekindled all the fading melodies, 
With which, like flowers that mock 
the corse beneath. 
He had adorned and hid the coming 
bulk of death. 



Oh weep for Adonais— he is dead ! 
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and 

weep ! 
Yet wherefore ? Quench within 

their burning bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud 

heart keep 
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining 

sleep ; 
For he is gone, where all things wise 

and fair 
Descend ;— oh, dream not that the 

amorous Deep 
Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
Death feeds on his mute voice, and 

laughs at our despair. 



IV. 

Most musical of mourners, weep 

again ! 
Lament anew, Urania !— He died. 
Who was the Sire of an immortal 

strain, 
Blind, old, and lonely, when his 

country's pride. 
The priest, the slave, and the liberti- 

cide. 
Trampled and mockt with many a 

loathed rite 
Of lust and blood ; he went, unterri- 

fled. 
Into the gulf of death ; but his clear 

Sprite 
Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among 

the sons of light. 



Most musical of mourners, weep: 

anew ! 
Not all to that bright station dared 

to climb ; 
And happier they their happiness 

who knew. 
Whose tapers yet burn thro' that 

night of time 
In which suns perisht ; others more 

sublime. 
Struck by the envious wrath of man 

or God, 
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent i 

prime ; 
And some yet live, treading the 

titiorny road. 
Which leads, thro' toil and hate, to 

Fame's serene abode. 



But now, thy youngest, dearest ones 

has peri,sht. 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who i 

grew. 
Like a pale flower by some sad maid- 1 

en cheri.sht. 
And fed with true-love tears, instead I 

of dew ; 
Most musical of mourners, weep : 

anew ! 
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and 

the last, 
The bloom whose petals nipt before 

they blew 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is 

waste ; 
The broken lily lies— the storm is over- 
past. 



To that high Capital, where kingly 

Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and 

decay. 
He came ; and bought, with price of 

purest breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come 

away ! 
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian 

day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while 

still 
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; 
Awake him not ! surely he takes his 

fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all 

ill. 



ADONAIS. 



311 



He will awake no moi'e, oh, never 

more ! — 
Within the twilight chamber spreads 

apace, 
The shadow of white Death, and at 

the door 
Invisible Corrnption waits to trace 
His extreme way to her dim dwell- 
ing-place ; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity 

and awe 
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she 

to deface 
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the 

law 
Of change shall o'er his sleep the 

mortal curtain draw. 



Oh weep for Adonais !— The quick 

Dreams, 
The passion-winged Ministers of 

thought. 
Who were his flocks, whom near the 

living streams 
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom 

he taught 
The love which was its music, wander 

not,— 
Wander no more, from kindling 

brain to brain. 
But droop there, whence they 

sprung ; and mourn their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after 

their sweet pain, 
They ne'er will gather strength, or find 

a home again. 



And one with trembling hands clasps 

his cold head. 
And fans him with her moonlight 

wings, and cries ; 
"Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is 

not dead ; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint 

eyes. 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, 

there lies 
A tear some Dream has loosened 

from his brain," 
Lest Angel of a ruined Paradise ! 
She knew not 't was her own ; as 

with no stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had 

outwept its rain. 



One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Washt his light limbs as if embalm- 
ing them ; 
Another dipt her profuse locks, and 

threw 
The wreath upon him, like an ana- 

dem, 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls 

begem ; 
Another in her wilful grief would 

break 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to 

stem 
A greater loss with one which was 

more weak ; 
And dull the barbed fire against his 

frozen cheek. 



XII. 

Another Splendor on his mouth 

alit, 
That mouth, whence it was wont to 

draw the breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce the 

guarded wit. 
And pass into the panting heart be- 
neath 
With lightning and with music : the 

damp death 
Quencht its caress upon his icy lips ; 
And, as a dying meteor stains a 

wreath 
Of moonlight vapor, which the cold 

night clips, 
It flusht thro' his pale limbs, and past 

to its eclipse. 



XIII. 

And others came . . . Desires and 
Adorations, 

Winged Persuasions and veiled Des- 
tinies, 

Splendors, and Glooms, and glimmer- 
ing Incarnations 

Of hopes and fears, and twilight 
Fantasies ; 

And Sorrow, with her family of 
Sighs, 

And Pleasure, blind with tears, led 
by the gleam 

Of her own dying smile instead of 
eyes, 

Came in slow pomp ;— the moving 
pomp might seem 
Like pageantry of mist on an autum- 
nal stream. 



313 



ADONAia. 



All he had loved, and moulded into 

thought, 
From shape, and hue, and odor, and 

sweet sound. 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watchtower, and her 

hair unbound, 
Wet with the tears which should 

adorn the ground. 
Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle 

day ; 
Afar the melancholy thunder 

moaned, 
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay. 
And the wild winds flew round, sob- 
bing in their dismay. 



Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless 
mountains, 

And feeds her grief with his remem- 
bered lay. 

And will no more reply to winds or 
fountains. 

Or amorous birds percht on the young 
gieen spray. 

Or herdsman's horn, or bell at clos- 
ing day ; • _ .,..,. 

Since she can mimic not his lips, 
more dear 

Than those for whose disdain she 
pine<l away 

Into a shadow of all sounds :— a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is all 
the woodmen hear. 



Grief made the young Spring wild, 

And she threw down 
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn 

were. 
Or they dead leaves ; since her de- 
light is flown 
For whom should she have waked 

the sullen year ? 
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thou, Adonais : wan they stand and 

sere 
Amid the faint companions of their 

youth, 
With dew all turned to tears ; odor, 

to sighing mirth. 

XVII. 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightin- 
gale 

Mourns not her mate with such melo- 
dious pain ; 



Not so the eagle, who like thee could 

scale 
Heaven, and could nourish in the 

sun's domain 
Her mighty youth with morning, 

doth complain. 
Soaring and screaming round her 

empty nest. 
As Albion wails for thee : the curse 

of Cain 
Light on his head who pierced thy 

innocent breast. 
And scared the angel soul that was its 

earthly guest ! 

XVIII. 

Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and 

gone. 
But grief returns with the revolving 

year ; 
The airs and streams renew their 

joyous tone ; 
The ants, the bees, the swallows re- 
appear ; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the 

dead Seasons' bier ; 
The amorous birds now pair in every 

brake. 
And build their mossy homes in field 

and brere ; 
And the green lizard, and the golden:) 

snake. 
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their i 

trance awake. 

XIX. 

Thro' wood and stream and field and 

hill and Ocean 
A quickening life from the Earth's 

heart has burst 
As it has ever done, with change 

and motion. 
From the great morning of the world 

when first 
God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream 

immerst 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a 

softer light ; 
All baser things pant with life's 

sacred thirst ; 
Diffuse themselves ; and spend in ^ 

love's delight. 
The beauty and the joy of their re- 
newed might. 

XX. 

The leprous corpse toucht by this 

spirit tender 
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle 

breath ; 



ADONAIS. 



3i; 



Like incarnations of the stars, when 

splendor 
Is changed to fragrance, they illu- 
mine death 
And mock the merry worm that 

wakes beneath ; 
Naught we know, dies. Shall that 

alone which knows 
Be as a sword consiuned before the 

sheath 
By sightless lightning ?— the intense 

atom glows 
A moment, then is quencht in a most 

cold repose. 

XXI. 

Alas ! that all we loved of him should 

be, 
But for our grief, as if it had not 

been, 
And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is 

me ! 
Whence are we, and why are we ? of 

what scene 
The actors or spectators ? Great and 

mean 
Meet massed in death, who lends 

what life must borrow. 
As long as skies are blue, and fields 

are green, 
Evening must usher night, night 

urge the morrow. 
Month follow month with woe, and 

year wake year to sorrow. 

XXII. 

He will awake no more, oh, never 

more ! 
"Wake thou," cried Misery, "child- 
less Mother, rise 
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy 

heart's core, 
A wound more fierce than his with 

tears and sighs." 
And all the Dreams that watcht 

Urania's eyes. 
And all the Echoes whom their 

sister's song 
Had held in holy silence, cried : 

"Arise !" 
Swift as a Thought by the snake 

Memoi'y stung, 
From her ambrosial rest the fading 

Splendor sprung. 

XXIII. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, 

that springs 
Out of the East, and follows wild 

and drear 



The golden Day, which, on eternal 
wings. 

Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 

Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow 
and fear 

So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania ; 

So saddened round her like an atmos- 
phere 

Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her 
way 
Even to the mournful place where 
Adonais lay. 

XXIV. 

Out of her secret Paradise she sped. 
Thro' camps and cities rough with 

stone, .and steel. 
And human hearts, which to her airy 

tread 
Yielding not, wounded the invisible 
Palms of her tender feet where'er 

they fell : 
And barbed tongues, and thoughts 

more sharp than they 
Rent the soft Form they never could 

repel, 
Whose sacred blood, like the young 

t^ars of May, 
Paved with eternal flowers that unde- 
serving way. 

XXV. 

In the death chamber for a moment 
Death, 

Shamed by the presence of that liv- 
ing Might, 

Blusht to annihilation, and the breath 

Revisited those lips, and life's pale 
light 

Flasht thro' those limbs, so late her 
dear delight. 

"Leave me not wild and drear and 
comfortless. 

As silent lightning leaves the star- 
less night ! 

Leave me not ! " cried Urania : her 
distress 
Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, 
and met her vain caress. 

XXVI 

" Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once 
again ; 

Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may 
live ; 

And in my heartless breast and burn- 
ing brain 

That word, that kiss shall all 
thoughts else survive, 



314 



ADONAIS. 



With food of saddest memory kept 

alive, 
Now thou art dead, as if it were a 

part 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art I 
But I am chained to Time, and can not 

thence depart ! 



" O gentle child, beautiful as thou 

wert, 
Why didst thou leave the trodden 

paths of men 
Too soon, and with weak hands tho' 

mighty heart 
Dare the unpastured dragon in his 

den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh where 

was then 
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or 

scorn the spear ? 
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, 

when 
Thy spirit should have filled its cres- 
cent sphere. 
The monsters of life's waste had fled 

from thee like deer. 



" The herded wolves, bold only to 

pursue ; 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er 

the dead ; 
The vultures to the conqueror's ban- 
ner true 
Who feed where Desolation first has 

fed. 
And whose wings rain contagion ; — 

how they fled, 
When like Apollo, from his golden 

bow. 
The Pythian of the age one arrow 

sped 
And smiled !— The spoilers tempt no 

second blow, 
They fawn on the proud feet that 

spurn them lying low. 



"The sun comes forth, and many 

reptiles spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect 

then 
Is gathered into death without a 

dawn. 
And the immortal stars awake 

again ; 
So is it in the world of living men : 



A godlike mind soars forth, in its d 
light 

Making earth bare and veiling heav- 
en, and when 

It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or 
shared its light 
Leave to its kindred lamp the spirit's 
awful night." 

XXX. 

Thus ceased she : and the mountain! 

shepherds came. 
Their garlands sere, their magic man-i 

ties rent ; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is 

bent. 
An early but enduring monument. 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of 

his song 
In sorrow ; from her wilds lerne 

sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest 

wrong. 
And love taught grief to fall like music. 

from his tongue. 



XXXI. 

Midst others of less note, came one 
frail Form, 

A phantom among men ; companion- 
less 

As the last cloud of an expiring 
storm 

Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as I 
guess, 

Had gazed on Nature's naked loveli- 
ness, 

Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray 

With feeble steps o'er the world's 
wilderness, 

And his own thoughts, along that 
rugged way. 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their 
father and their prey. 



XXXII. 

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and 

swift — 
A Love in desolation maskt ;— a 

Power 
Girt round with weakness ;— it can 

scarce uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent 

hour ; 
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
A breaking billow :— even whilst we 

speak 



ADONAIS. 



315 



Is it not broken ? On the withering 

flower 
The killin<? sun smiles brightly : on a 

cheek 
Che life can burn in blood, even while 

the heart may break. 

XXXIII. 

His head was bound with pansies 

over-blown, 
And faded violets, white, and pied, 
i and blue ; 
And a light spear topt with a cypress 

cone, 
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy 

tresses grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noon- 
day dew. 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
Shook the weak hand that graspt it ; 

of that crew 
He came the last, neglected and 

apart ; 
A. herd-abandoned deer struck by the 

hunter's dart. 

XXXIV. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial 

moan 
Smiled thro' their tears ; well knew 

that gentle band 
Who in another's fate now wept his 

own ; 
As in the accents of an unknown 

land, 
He sung new sorrow ; sad Urania 

scanned 
The Stranger's mien, and murmured: 

"Who art thou?" 
He answered not, but with a sudden 

hand 
Made bare his branded and ensan- 
guined brow, 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's— oh, 

that it should be so ! 

XXXV. 

What softer voice is husht over the 

dead ? 
Athwart what brow is that dark 

mantle thrown ? 
What form leans sadly o'er the white 

deathbed, 
In mockery of monumental stone, 
The heavy heart heaving without a 

moan? 
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, 
Taught, soothed, loved, honored the 

departed one ; 



Let me not vex, with inharmonious 
sighs 
The silence of that heart's accepted 
sacrifice. 

XXXVI. 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh ! 
What deaf and viperous murderer 

could crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught 

of woe ? 
The nameless worm would now itself 

disown : 
It felt, yet could escape the magic 

tone 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, 

and wrong. 
But what was howling in one breast 

alone. 
Silent with expectation of the song. 
Whose master's hand is cold, whose 

silver lyre unstrung. 

XXXVII. 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy 

fame ! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement 

from me. 
Thou noteless blot on a remembered 

name ! 
But be thyself, and know thyself 

to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom when thy fangs 

o'erflow : 
Remorse and Self-contempt shall 

cling to thee ; 
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret 

brow. 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou 

Shalt— as now. 

XXXVIII. 

Nor let us weep that our delight is 
fled 

Far from these carrion kites that 
scream below ; 

He wakes or sleeps with the endur- 
ing dead ; 

Thou canst not soar where he is sit- 
ting now. — 

Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit 
shall flow 

Back to the burning fountain whence 
it came, 

A portion of the Eternal, which must 
glow 

Thro' time and change, unquench- 
ably the same, 
Whilst thy cold embers choke the 
sordid hearth of shame. 



316 



ADONAIS. 



XXXIX. 

Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth 

not sleep- 
He hath awakened from the dream 

of life— 
'T is we, who lost in stormy visions, 

keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable 

strife. 
And in mad trance, strike with our 

spirit's knife 
Invulnerable nothings. — Wc decay 
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and 

grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by 

day, 
And coid hopes swa'- - like worms 

within our liviii y. 



XL. 

He has outsoared the shadow of our 

night ; 
Envy and calumny and hate and 

pain. 
And that unrest which men miscall 

delight. 
Can touch him not and torture not 

again ; 
From the contagion of the world's 

slow stain 
He is secure, and now can never 

mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown 

gray in vain ; 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased 
. to burn, 
With si)arkless ashes load an unla- 

mented urn. 



XLI. 

He lives, he wakes — 't is Death is 

dead, not he ; 
Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young 

Dawn 
Turn all thy dew to splendor, for 

from thee 
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; 
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to 

moan ! 
Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, 

and thou Air 
Which like a mourning veil thj^ scarf 

hadst thrown 
O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave 

it bare 
Even to the joyous stars which smile on 

its despair ! 



XLII. 



i 



He is made one with Nature : there 

is heard 
His voice in all her music, from the 

moan 
Of thunder to the song of night's 

sweet bird ; 
He is a presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb 

and stone. 
Spreading itself where'er that Power 

may move 
Which has withdrawn his being to 

its own ; 
Which wields the world with never o 

wearied love, 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles- 

it above. 



XLIII. 

He is a portion of the loveliness 
Which once he made more lovely : 

he doth bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic 

stress 
Sweeps thro' the dull dense world, 

compelling there 
All new successions to the forms 

they wear ; 
Torturing the unwilling dross that 

checks its flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass 

may bear ; 
And bursting in its beauty and its 

might 
From trees and beasts and men into 

the Heaven's light. 



XLIV. 

The splendors of the firmament of 

time 
May be eclipst, but are extinguisht 

not ; 
Like stars to their appointed height 

they climb 
And death is a low mist which can 

not blot 
The brightness it may veil. When 

lofty thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal 

lair, 
And love and life contend in it, for 

what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead 

live there 
And move like winds of light on dark 

and stormy air. 



ADONALS. 



317 



The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 
Rose from their thrones, built be- 
yond mortal thought, 
Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he 

fought 
And as he fell and as he lived and 

loved 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit w^ithout 

spot, 
Arose ; and Lucan, by his death ap- 
proved : 
Iblivion as they rose shrank like a 
thing reproved. 

XLVI. 

And many more, whose names on 
Earth are dark. 

But whose transmitted effluence can- 
not die 

So long as fire outlives the parent 
spark, 

Rose, robed in dazzling immortal- 
ity. 

" Thou art become as one of us," 
they cry, 

" It was for thee yon kingless sphere 
has long 

Swung blind in unascended majesty. 

Silent alone amid an Heaven of 
Song. 
Assume thy winged throne, thou Ves- 
per of our throng ! " 

XLVII. 

Who mourns for Adonais ? Oh come 

forth. 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and 

him aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pen- 
dulous Earth ; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's 

light 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious 

might 
Satiate the void circumference : then 

shrink 
Even to a point within our day and 

night ; 
And keep thy heart light lest it make 

thee sink 
When hope has kindled hope, and lured 

thee to the brink. 



Or go to Rome, which is the sepul- 
chre 



Oh ! not of him, but of our joy : 't is 

naught 
That ages, empires, and religions 

there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have 

wrought ; 
For such as he can lend, — they bor- 
row not 
Glory from those who made the 

world their prey ; 
And he is gathered to the kings of 

thought 
Who waged contention with their 

time's decay, 
And of the past are all that can not 

pass away. 

XLIX. 

Go thou to Rome,— at once the Para- 
dise, 

The grave, the city, and the wilder- 
ness ; 

And where its wrecks like shattered 
mountains rise. 

And flowering weeds, and fragrant 
copses dress 

The bones of Desolation's nakedness 

Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall 
lead 

Thy footsteps to a slope of green 
access 

Where, like an infant's smile, over 
the dead 
A light of laughing flowers along the 
grass is spread. 



And gray walls moulder round, on 

which dull Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoai-y 

brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge 

sublime. 
Pavilioning the dust of him who 

planned 
This refuge for his memory, doth 

stand 
Like flame transformed to marble ; 

and beneath, 
A field is spread, on which a newer 

band 
Have pitcht in Heaven's smile their 

camp of death 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce 

extinguisht breath. 



Here pause : these graves are all too 

young as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrow which 

consigned 



318 



HELLAS. 



Its charpre to each ; and if the seal is 
set. 

Here, on one fountain of a mourn- 
ing mind, 

Break it not thou ! too surely shalt 
thou find 

Thine own well full, if thou returnest 
home, 

Of tears and gall. Prom the world's 
bitter wind 

Seek .shelter in the shadow of the 
tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to be- 
come ? 



The One remains, the many change 

and pass ; 
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's 

shadows fly ; 
Life, like a dome of manj'-colored 
^ gliiss, fllity, 

btains the white radiance of Eter- 
Until Death tramples it to frag- 
ments. — Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which 

thou dost seek ! 
Follow where all is fled !— Rome's 

azure sky. 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, 

are weak 
The glory they transfuse with fltting 

truth to speak. 



Why linger, why turn back, why 

shrink, my Heart ? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all 

things here 
They have departed ; thou shouldst 

now depart ! 
A light is past from the revolving 

year. 
And man, and woman ; and what 

still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make 

thee wither. 
The soft sky .smiles,— the low wind 

whispers near ; 
'T is Adonais calls ! oh, hasten 

thither. 
No more let Life divide what Death 

can join together. 



That Light whose smile kindles the 
Universe, 

That Beauty in which all things work 
and move. 

That Benediction which the eclips- 
ing Curse 



Of birth can quench not, that sus- 
taining Love [wove 

Which thro' the-webof being blindly- 

By man and beast and earth and airi 
and sea, 

Burns bright or dim, as each are 
mirrors of 

The Are for which all thirst ; now 
beams on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold 
mortality. 



The breath who.se might I have in-i 

voked in song 
Descends on me ; my spirit's hark is 

driven. 
Far from the shore, far from the^ 

trembling throng 
Whose .sails were never to the tem- 
pest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies 

are riven ! 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
Whilst burning thro' the inmost veil 

of Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
Beacons from the abode where the 

Eternal are. 



HELLAS. 
A LYRICAL DRAMA. 

MANTI2 'EIM' "ESeAnN 'ArfiNnN. 

CEdip. Colon. 

TO 

HIS EXCELLENCY 
PRINCE ALEXANDER MAVROCORDATO 

LATE SECRETARY FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS 
TO THE HOSPODAR OF WALLACHIA 

THE DRAMA OF HELLAS 

IS INSCRIBED 

AS AN IMPERFECT TOKEN 

OF THE 

ADMIRATION, SYMPATHY, AND FRIENDSHIP 

OF 

THE AUTHOI!. 
Pisa, November 1, 1831. 

PREFACE. 

The poem of " Hellas," written at 
the suggestion of the events of the mo- 
ment, is a mere improvise, and derives 
its interest (should it be found to pos- 
sess any) solely from the intense sym- 



HELLAS. 



319 



)athy which the Author feels with the 
!ause he would celebrate. 

The subject, in its present state, is in- 
.usceptible of being treated otherwise 
,han lyrically, and if I have called this 
wem a drama from the circumstance 
)f its being composed in dialogue, the 
icense is not greater than that which 
has been assumed by other poets who 
have called their productions epics, 
anly because they have been divided 
into twelve or twenty-four books. 

The "Persae" of ^schylus afforded 
me the first model of my conception, 
although the decision of the glorious 
contest now waging in Greece being 
yet suspended forbids a catastrophe 
parallel to the return of Xerxes and 
the desolation of the Persians. I have, 
therefore, contented myself with ex- 
hibiting a series of lyric pictures, and 
with having wrought upon the curtain 
of futurity, which falls upon the unfin- 
ished scene, such figures of indistinct 
and visionary delineation as suggest 
the final triumph of the Greek cause 
as a portion of the cause of civilization 
and social improvement. 

The drama (if drama it must be 
called) is, however, so inartificial that 
I doubt whether, if recited on the Thes- 
pian wagon to an Athenian village at 
the Dionysiaca, it would have obtained 
the prize of the goat. I shall bear 
with equanimity any punishment, 
greater than the loss of such a reward 
which the Aristarchi of the hour may 
think fit to inflict. 

The only Qoat-soiKj which I have yet 
attempted has, I confess, in spite of the 
unfavorable nature of the subject, re- 
ceived a greater and a more valuable 
portion of applause than I expected or 
than it deserved. 

Common fame is the only authority 
wliicli I can allege for the details which 
form the basis of the poem, and I must 
trespass upon the forgiveness of my 
readei's for the display of newspaper 
erudition to which I have been reduced. 
Undoubtedly, until the conclusion of 
the war, it will be impossible to obtain 
an account of it sufficiently authentic 
for historical materials ; but poets have 
their privilege, and it is unquestionable 
that actions of the most exalted cour- 
age have been performed by the Greeks 
— that they have gained more than one 
naval victory, and that their defeat in 
Wallachia was signalized by circum- 
stances of heroism more glorious even 
than victory. 



The apathy of the rulers of the civil- 
ized world to the astonishing circum- 
stance of tlie descendants of that 
nation to which they owe their civili- 
zation, rising as it were from the ashes 
of their ruin, is something perfectly 
inexplicable to a mere spectator of the 
shows of this mortal scene. We are 
all Greeks. Our laws, our literature, 
our religion, our arts have their root 
in Greece. But for Greece— Rome, the 
instructor, the conqueror, or the 
metropolis of our ancestors, would 
have spread no illumination with her 
arms, and we might still have been 
savages and idolaters ; or, what is 
worse, might have arrived at such a 
stagnant and miserable state of social 
institution as China and Japan possess. 
The human form and the human 
mind attained to a perfection in Greece 
which has impressed its image on those 
faultless productions, whose very frag- 
ments are the despair of modern art, 
and has propagated impulses which 
cannot cease, through a thousand 
channels of manifest or imperceptible 
operation, to ennoble and delight man- 
kind until the extinction of the race. 

The modern Greek is the descendant 
of those glorious beings whom the 
imagination almost refuses to figure 
to itself as belonging to our kind, 
and he inherits much of then- sensi- 
bility, their rapidity of conception, 
their enthusiasm, and their courage. 
If in many instances he is degraded 
by moral knd political slavery to the 
practice of the basest vices it en- 
genders, and that below the level of 
ordinary degradation ; let us reflect 
that the corruption of the best pro- 
duces the worst, and that habits which 
subsist only in relation to a peculiar 
state of social institution may be ex- 
pected to cease as soon as that relation 
is dissolved. In fact, the Greeks, since 
the admirable novel of "Anastasius" 
could have been a faithful picture of 
their manners, have undergone most 
important changes ; the flower of their 
youth, returning to their country from 
the universities of Italy, Germany, and 
France, have communicated to their 
fellow-citizens the latest results of that 
social perfection of which their an- 
cestors were the original source. The 
university of Chios contained before 
the breaking out of the revolution 
eight hundred students, and among 
them several Germans and Americans. 
The munificeuce and energy of many 



320 



HELLAS. 



of the Greek princes and merchants, 
directed to the renovation of their 
country with a spirit and a wisdom 
which has few examples, is above all 
praise. 

The English permit their own oppres- 
sors to act according to their natural 
sympathy with the Turkish tyrant, 
and to brand upon their name the in- 
delible blot of an alliance with the 
enemies of dmoestic happiness, of 
Christianity and civilization. 

Russia desires to possess, not to 
liberate Greece ; and is contented to 
see the Turks, its natural enemies, and 
the Greeks, its intended slaves, en- 
feeble each other until one or both fall 
into its net. The wise and' generous 
policy of England would have con 
sisted in establishing the independence 
of Greece, and in maintaining it both 
against Russia and the Turk ;— but 
when was the oppressor generous or 
just? 

The Spanish Peninsula is already 
free. France is tranquil in the enjoy- 
ment of a partal exemption from the 
abuses which its unnatural and feeble 
government are vainly attempting to 
revive. The seed of blood and misery 
has been sown in Italy, and a more 
vigorous race is arising to go forth to 
the harvest. The world waits only the 
news of a revolution of Germany to 
see the tyrants who have pinnacled 
themselves on its supineness precip- 
itated into the ruin from which they 
shall never arise. Well do these des- 
troyers of mankind know their enemy, 
when they impute the insurrection in 
Greece to the same spirit before which 
they tremble throughout the rest of 
Europe, and that enemy well knows 
the power and the cunning of its oppo- 
nents, and watches themoment of their 
approaching weakness and inevitable 
division to wrest the bloody sceptres 
from their grasp. 

HELLAS. 

A LYRICAL DRAMA. 

DRAMATIS PERSON jE. 

Mahmud. 

Hassan. 

Daood. 

Ahasuerus, a Jew. 
Chorus of Greek Captive Women. 
Messengers. Slaves, and Attendants. 
Scene, Constantinople. Time, Sunset. 



SCENE.— A Terrace ox the 
Seraglio. 

Mahmud sleeping, an Indian Slave 
sitting beside his Couch. 

Chorus of Greek Captive Women. 

We strew these opiate flowers 

On thy restless pillow,— 

They were stript from Orient 

bowers. 

By the Indian billow. 

Be thy sleep, 

Calm and deep, 

Like theirs who fell— not ours who 

weep ! 

Indian. 

Away, imlovely dreams ! 

Away, false shapes of sleep ! 
Be his, as Heaven seems. 
Clear, and bright, and deep ! 
Soft as love, and calm as death. 
Sweet as a summer night without ai 
breath. 

Chorus. 

Sleep, sleep ! our song is laden 

With the soul of slumber ; 
It was sung by a Samian maiden, 
Whose lover was of the number 
Who now keep 
That calm sleep 
Whence none may wake, where : 
none shall weep. 

Indian. 

I touch thy temples pale ! 

I breathe my soul on thee ! 
And could my prayers avail, 
All my joy should be 
Dead, and I would live to weep, 
So thou might'st win one hour of 
quiet sleep. 

Chorus. 

Breathe low, low 
The spell of the mighty mistress 

now ! 
When Conscience lulls her sated 

snake. 
And Tyrants sleep, let Freedom 
wake. 

Breathe low — low 
The words which, like secret fire, 

shall flow 
Thro' the veins of the frozen earth— 
lo^s^ low ! 



HELLAS. 



321 



Semi chorus 1. 

Life may change, but it may fly not ; 
Hope may vanish, but can die not ; 
Truth be veiled, but still it burnetii ; 
Love repulsed,— but it returneth 1 

Scmichoriis II. 

Yet were life a charnel where 
Hope lay coffined with Despair ; 
Yet were truth a sacred lie, 
Love were lust— 

Scmichorus I. 

If Liberty 
Lent not life its soul of light, 
Hope its iris of delight, 
Truth its prophet's robe to wear. 
Love its power to give and bear. 

Chorus. 

the great morning of the world, 
18 spirit of God with might unfurled 
le flag of Freedom over Chaos, 
And all its banded anarchs fled, 
ke vultures frighted from Imaus, 
Before an earthquake's tread. — 
• from Time's tempestuous dawn 
•eedom's splendor burst and shone : — 
lermopylae and Marathon 
lught, like mountains beacon-lighted. 
The springing Fire.— The winged 

glory 
1 Philippi half-alighted, 
Like an eagle on a promontory. 
3 unwearied wings could fan 
le quenchless ashes of Milan, 
•om age to age, from man to man. 
It lived ; and lit from land to land 
Florence, Albion, Switzerland. 

len night fell ; and, as from night, 
3assuniing fiery flight, 
■om the West swift Freedom came. 
Against the course of Heaven and 

doom, 
second sun arrayed in flame. 
To burn, to kindle, to illume, 
■om far Atlantis its young beams 
lased the shadows and the dreams, 
•ance, with all her sanguine steams, 
Hid, but quencht it not ; again 
Through clouds its shafts of glory 

rain 
From utmost Germany to Spain. 

3 an eagle fed with morning 
'orns the embattled tempests' warn- 
ing, 
hen she seeks her aerie hanging 
In the mountain-cedar's hair, 

21 



And her brood expect the clanging 
Of her wings thro' the wild air. 

Sick with famine :— Freedom, so 
To what of Greece remaineth now 

Returns ; her hoary ruins glow 

Like Orient mountains lost in day ; 
Beneath the safety of her wings 

Her renovated nurslings prey. 
And in the naked lightnings 

Of truth thej' purge their dazzled eyes. 

Let Freedom leave— where'er she flief, 

A Desert, or a Paradise : 
Let the beautiful and the brave 
Share her glory, or a gi-ave. 

Scmichoi'us I. 

With the gifts of gladness 
Greece did thy cradle strew ; 

Semichorus II. 

With the tears of sadness 
Greece did thy shroud bedew ! 

Scmichorus I. 

With an orphan's affection 
She followed tliy bier thro' Time ; 

Semichorus II. 

And at thy resurrection 
Reappeareth, like thou, sublime ! 

Scmichorus I. 

If Heaven should resume thee, 
To Heaven shall her spirit ascend ; 

Scmichorus II. 

It Hell should entomb thee. 
To Hell shall her high hearts bend. 

Scmichorus I. 
If Annihilation — 

Scmichorus II. 

Dust let her glories be ! 
And a name and a nation 
Be forgotten, Freedom, with thee ! 

Indian. 

His brow grows darker — breathe not— 

move not ! 
He starts— he shudders— ye that love 
not. 
With your panting loud and fast, 
Have awakened him at last. 
Mahmud (starting from his sleep). 
Man the Seraglio-guard ! make 
fast the gate. 



333 



HELLAS. 



What ! from a cannonade of three 

short hours ? 
'T is false ! that breach towards the 

Bosphorus 
Cannot be practicable yet— who stirs ? 
Stand to the match ; that when the foe 

prevails 
One spark raaj' mix in reconciling ruin 
The conqusror and the conquered ! 

Heave the tower 
Into the f?ap--wrench off the roof. 

(Enter Hassax.) Ha ! what ! 

The truth of day lightens upon my 

dream 
And I am Mahmud still. 

Hassan. Your Sublime Highness 
Is strangely moved. 
Mahnmd. The times do cast 

strange shadows 
On those who watch and who must rule 

their course, 
Lest they, being first in peril as in 

glory, 
Be whelmed in the fierce ebb : — and 

those are of them. 
Thrice has a gloomy vision hunted me 
As thus from sleep into the troubled 

day ; 
It shakes me as the tempest shakes the 

sea, 
Leaving no figure upon memory's glass. 
Would that— no matter. Thou didst 

say thou knewest 
A Jew, whose spirit is a chronicle 
Of strange and secret and forgotten 

things. 
I bade thee summon him : — 't is said 

his tribe 
Dream, and are wise interpreters of 

dreams. 
Hassan. The Jew of whom I spake 

is old, — so old 
He seems to have outlived a world's 

decay ; 
The hoary mountains and the wrinkled 

ocean 
Seem younger still than he ;— his hair 

and beard 
Are whiter than the tempest-sifted 

snow ; 
His cold pale limbs and pulseless arte- 
ries 
Are like the fibres of a cloud instinct 
With light, and to the soul that quick- 
ens them 
Are as the atoms of the mountain-drift 
To the winter-wind ;— but from his eye 

looks forth 
A life of unconsumed thought which 

pierces 
The present, and the past, and the to- 
come. 



Some say that this is he whom tht 

great prophet 
Jesus, the son of Joseph, for hit, 

mockery 
Mockt with the curse of immortality. , 
Some feign that he is Enoch ; others' 

dream 
He was pre-adamite and has survived , 
Cycles of generation and of ruin. 
The sage, in truth, by dreadful abi 

stinence 
And conquering penance of the mutim 

ous flesh, 
Deep contemplation, and unweariec 

study, I 

In years outstretcht beyond the date 

of man, 
May have attained to sovereignty and 

science ; 

Over those strong and secret things; 

and thoughts 
Which others fear and know not. 

^[ahm^^d. I would talk' 

With this old Jew. 

Ha,ssan. Thy will is even now\ 

Made known to him, where he dwellsl 

in a sea-cavern i 

Mid the Demonesi, less accessible ' 

Than thou or God ! He who would 

question him 
Must sail alone at sunset, where the 

stream 
Of Ocean sleeps around those foamless- 

isles, 
When the young moon is westering an 

now. 
And evening airs wander upon thei 

wave ; 
And when the pines of that bee-pastur-i 

ing isle. 
Green Erebinthus, quench the fiery 

shadow 
Of his gilt prow within the sapphire 

water. 
Then must the lonely helmsman cry 

aloud 
" Ahasuerus ! " and the caverns round 
Will answer "Ahasuerus!" If his 

prayer 
Be granted, a faint meteor will arise 
Lighting him over Marmora, and aj 

wind 
Will rush out of the sighing pine-; 

forest. 
And with the wind a storm of har 

mony 
Unutterably sweet, and pilot him 
Thro' the soft twilight to the Bospho-n 

rvis : 
Thence at the hour and place and cir- 
cumstance 
Fit for the matter of their conference 



HELLAS. 



323 



'he Jew appears. Few dare, and few 

who dare 
7in the desired communion— but that 

shout 
;odes— [A shout wifliin. 

Mahmud. Evil, doubtless ; like 

all human sounds. 
,et me converse with spirits. 
Hassan. That shout again. 

Mahmud. This Jew whom thou hast 

summoned— 
Hassan. Will be here— 

Mahmud. "When the omnipotent 

hour to which are yoked 
[e, I, and all things shall compel — 

enough, 
ilence those mutineers —that drunken 

crew, 
hat crowd about the pilot in the 

storm, 
.y ! strike the foremost shorter by a 

head ! 
'hey weary me, and I have need of 

rest, 
lings are like stars — they rise and 

set, they have 
he worship of the world, but no re- 
pose. 

[Exeunt .severally. 

Chorus. 

Worlds on worlds are rolling ever 
From creation to decay, 

Like the bubbles on a river 
Sparkling, bursting, borne away. 
But they are still immortal 
Who, thro' birth's Orient portal 

And death's dark chasm hurrying to 
and fro, 
Clothe their unceasing flight 
In the brief dust and light 

Gathered around their chariots as 
they go ; 
New shapes they still may weave. 
New gods, new laws receive. 

Bright or dim are they as the robes 
they last 
On Death's bare ribs had cast. 

A power from the unknown God, 
A Promethean conqueror came ; 

Like a triumphal path he trod 
The thorns of death and shame. 
A mortal shape to him 
Was like the vapor dim 

Which the Orient planet animates 
with light ; 
Hell, Sin, and Slavei'y came. 
Like bloodhounds mild and tame. 

Nor preyed, until their Lord had 
taken flight ; 



The moon of Mahomet 
Arose, and it shall set : 
While blazoned as on heaven's im- 
mortal noon 
The cross leads generations on. 

Swift as the radiant shapes of 
sleep 
From one whose dreams are Para- 
dise 
Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to 
weep. 
And day peers forth with her blank 

eyes ; 
So fleet, so faint, so fair. 
The Powers of earth and air 
Fled from the folding star of Bethle- 
hem : 
Apollo, Pan, and Love, 
And even Olympian Jove 
Grew weak, for killing Truth had 
glared on them ; 
Our hills and seas and streams 
Dispeopled of their dreams. 
Their waters turned to blood, their 
dew to tears. 
Wailed for the golden years. 



Enter Mahmud, Hassan, Daood, 
and others. 

Mahmud. More gold ? our ances- 
tors bought gold with victory, 

And shall I sell it for defeat ? 
Daood. The Janizars 

Clamor for pay. 
Mahmud. Go '. bid them pay 

themselves 

With Christian blood ! Are there no 
Grecian virgins 

Whose shrieks and spasms and tears 
they may enjoy ? 

No infidel children to impale on spears ? 

No hoary priests after that Patriarch 

Who bent the curse against his coun- 
try's heart. 

Which clove his own at last ? Go ! 
bid them kill ; 

Blood is the seed of gold. 
Daood. It has been sown. 

And yet the harvest to the sickle-men 

Is as a grain to each. 
Mahmud. Then, take this signet, 

Unlock the seventh chamber in which 
lie 

The treasures of victorious Solyman, — 

An empire's spoil stored for a day of 
ruin. 

O .spirit of my sires ! is it not como y 

The prey-birds and the wolves are 
gorged and sleep ; 



334 



HELLAS. 



But th-^se, who spread their feast on 

the red earth, 
Hunger for gold, which fills not. — See 

them fed ; 
Then, lead them to the rivers of fresh 

death. \Exit Daood. 

O miserable dawn, after a night 
More glorious than the day which it 

usurpt ! 
O faith in God ! O power on earth ! O 

word 
Of the great prophet, whose o'er- 

shadowing wings 
Darkened the thrones and idols of the 

West, 
Now bright !— For thy sake cursed be 

the hour, 
Even as a father by an evil child, 
When the Orient moon of Islam rolled 

in triumph 
From Caucasus to White Ceraunia ! 
Ruin above, and anarchy below ; 
Terror without, and treachery with- 
in ; 
The Chalice of destruction full, and 

^all 
Thirsting to drink ; and who among us 

dares 
To dash it from his lips ? and where is 

Hope ? 
llaf<snn. The lamp of our dominion 

.still .strides high , 
One God is God— Mahomet is his 

prophet. 
Four hundred thousand Moslems from 

the limits 
Of utmost Asia, irresistibly 
Throng, like full clouds at the Sirocco's 

cry ; 
But not like them to weep their 

strength in tears : 
They bear destroying lightning, and 

their step 
AVakes earthquake to consume and 

overwhelm, 
And reign in ruin. Phrygian Olym- 
pus, 
Tmolus, and Latmos, and Mycale, 

roughen 
With horrent arms ; and lofty ships 

even now, 
Like vapors anchored to a mountain's 

edge. 
Freighted with fire and whirlwind, 

wait at Scala 
The convoy of the ever-veering wind. 
Samos is drunk with blood ; — the 

Greek has paid 
Brief victory with swift loss and long 

despair. 
The false Moldavian serfs fled fast and 

far, 



When the fierce shout of Allah-ilia 

Allah ! 
Rose like the war-cry of tlie northeru 

wind 
Which kills the sluggish clouds, ami 

leaves a flock ' 

Of wild swans struggling with tW 

naked storm. 
So were the lost Greeks on th( 

Danube's day ! 
If night is mute, yet the returninfi 

sun 
Kindles the voices of the morninj 

birds ; 
Nor at thy bidding less exultingly 
Than birds rejoicing in the golden daj. 
The Anarchies of Africa unleash 
Their tempest winged cities of the sea 
To speak in thunder to tlie rebe 

world. 
Dike sulphurous clouds, half-shattere< 

by the storm. 
They sweep the pale ^gean, whil 

the Queen 
Of Ocean, bound upon her island 

throne, 
Far in the West sits mourning tha; 

her sons 
Who frown on Freedom spare a smili 

for thee : 
Russia still hovers, as an eagle mighl 
Within a cloud, near which a kite an' 

crane 
Hang tangled in inextricable fight, 
To stoop upon the victor ;— for shj 

fears 
The name of Freedom, even as sh! 

hates thine. 
But recreant Austria loves thee as th' 

Grave 
Loves Pestilence, and her slow dogs c 

war 
Flesht with the chase, come up fror 

Italy, 
And howl upon their limits ; for the; 

seo 
The panther. Freedom, fled to her ol 

cover, 
Amid seas and mountains, and 

mightier brood 
Crouch round. What Anarch wears 

crown or mitre, 
Or bears the sword, or grasps the ke 

of gold. 
Whose friends are not thy friend,' ( 

whose foes thy foes ? 
Our arsenals and our armories ar 

full ; 
Our forts defy assault ; ten thousan 

cannon 
Lie ranged upon the beach, and hoii 

by hour 



HELLAS. 



325 



Their earth-convulsing wheels affright 

the city ; 
The galloping of fiery steeds makes 

pale 
The Christian merchant ; and the yel- 
low Jew 
Hides his hoard deeper in the faithless 

earth. 
Like clouds, and like the shadows of 

the clouds, 
3ver the hills of Anatolia, 
5wjft in wide troops the Tartar 

chivalry 
Sweep ;— the far-flashing of their 

starry lances 
Reverberates the dying light of day. 
We have one God, one King, one Hope, 

one Law ; 
feut many-headed Insurrection stands 
Divided in itself, and soon must fall. 
Mahrnud. Proud words, when deeds 

come short, are seasonable ; 
Look, Hassan, on yon crescent moon, 

emblazoned 
Upon that shattered flag of fiery cloud 
Which leads the rear of the departing 

day ; 
Wan emblem of an empire fading now ! 
See how it trembles in the blood-red air. 
And like a mighty lamp whose oil is 

spent 
Shrinks on the horizon's edge, while, 

from above, 
One star with insolent and victorious 

light 
Hovers above its fall, and with keen 
' beams. 

Like arrows thro' a fainting antelope. 
Strikes its weak form to death. 

Hassan. Even as that moon 

Renews itself — 
Mahmud. Shall we be not 

renewed ! 
Far other bark than ours were needed 

now 
To stem the torrent of descending time : 
The spirit that lifts the slave before his 

lord 
Stalks through the capitals of armed 

kings, 
And spreads his ensign in the wilder- 
ness : 
Exults in chains ; and, when the rebel 

falls. 
Cries like the blood of Abel from the 

dust ; 
And the inheritors of the earth, like 

beasts 
When earthquake is unleasht, with 

idiot fear 
Cower in their kingly dens— as I do 

now. 



What were Defeat when Victory must 
appal ? 

Or Danger, when Security looks pale?— 

How said the messenger— who, from 
the fort 

Islanded in the Danube, saw the battle 

Of Bucharest ?— that— 
H(tss(td. Ibrahim's scimitar 

Drew with its gleam swift victory from 
heaven, 

To burn before him in the night of bat- 
tle— 

A light and a destruction. 
Blalunud. Ay ! the day 

Was ours : but how ?— 
Hassn ii . The light Wallachians, 

The Arnaut, Servian, and Albanian 
allies 

Fled from the glance of our artillery 

Almost before the thunder-stone alit. 

One half the Grecian army made a 
bridge 

Of safe and slow retreat, with Moslem 
dead 

The other— 
Mahmud. Speak— tremble not.— 
Hassan. Islanded 

By victor myriads, formed in hollow 
square 

With rough and steadfast front, and 
thrice flung back 

The deluge of our foaming cavalry ; 

Thrice their keen wedge of battle 
pierced our lines. 

Our baflaed army trembled like one 
man 

Before a host, and gave them space ; 
but soon, 

From the surrounding hills, the bat- 
teries blazed. 

Kneading them down with fire and iron 
rain : 

Yet none approacht ; till, like a field of 
corn 

Under the hook of the swart sickle- 
man. 

The band, intrencht in mounds of Turk- 
ish dead. 

Grew weak and few.— Then said the 
Pacha, " Slaves, 

Render yourselves— they have aban- 
doned you — 

What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid ? 

We grant your lives." " Grant that 
which is thine own ! " 

Cried one, and fell upon his sword and 
died ! 

Another— " God, and man, and hope 
abandon me ; 

But I to them, and to myself, remain 

Constant : '"—he bowed his head and his 
heart burst. 



326 



HELLAS. 



A third exclaimed, " There is a refuge, 

tyrant, 
Where thou darest not pursue, and 

canst not harm, 
Should'st thou pursue ; there we shall 

meet again." 
Then held his breath, and, after a brief 

spasm. 
The indignant spirit cast its mortal gar- 
ment 
Among the slain— dead earth upon the 

earth ! 
So these survivors, each by different 

ways, 
Some strange, all sudden, none dishon- 
orable, 
Met in triumphant death ; and when 

our army 
Closed in, while yet wonder, and awe, 

and shame. 
Held back the base hyenas of the battle 
That feed upon the dead and fly the 

living. 
One rose out of the chaos of the slain : 
And if it were a corpse which some 

dread spirit 
Of the old saviors of the land we rule 
Had lifted in its anger wandering by ;— 
Or if there burned within the dying 

man 
Unquenchable disdain of death, and 

faith 
Creating what it feigned ;— I cannot 

tell- 
But he cried, " Phantoms of the free, we 

come ! 
Armies of the Eternal, ye who strike 
To dust the citadels of sanguine kings. 
And shake the souls throned on their 

stony hearts. 
And thaw their frost-work diadems 

lilce dew ; — 
O ye who float around this clime, and 

weave 
The garment of the glory which it 

wears. 
Whose fame, tho' earth betray the 

dust it claspt. 
Lies sepulchred in monumental 

thought ; 
Progenitors of all that yet is great. 
Ascribe to your bright senate, O accept 
In your high ministrations, us, your 

sons — 
Us first, and the more glorious yet to 

come ! 
And ye, weak conquerors ! giants who 

look pale 
When the crusht worm rebels beneath 

your tread, 
The vultures and the dogs, your pen- 
sioners tame, 



i 



Are overgorged ; but, like oppresson 

still 
They crave the relic of Destruction' 

feast. 
The exhalations and the thirsty wind' 
Are sick with blood ; the dew is fou 

with death ; 
Heaven's light is quencht in slaughter 

thus, where'er 
Upon your camps, cities, or towers, o 

fleets, J 

The obscene birds the reeking rem' 

nants cast 
Of these dead limbs, — upon youi 

streams and mountains. 
Upon your fields, your gardens, an< 

your iiousetops, 
Where'er the winds shall creep, or thi 

clouds fly, 
Or the dews fall, or the angry sun lool 

down 
With poisoned light — Famine and Peg 

tilence, 
And Panic, shall wage war upon ou | 

side ! 
Nature from all her boundaries i 

moved j, 

Against ye : Time has found ye ligh'' ' 

as foam. , 

The Earth rebels ; and Good and Evij ' 

stake ! . 

Their empire o'er the unborn world o'' 

men 
On this one cast ;— but ere the die btf 

thrown. 
The renovated genius of our race, 
Proud umpire of the impious game, de| 

scends 
A seraph-winged Victory bestriding 
The tempest of the Omnipotence o:| 

God, f 

Which sweeps all things to their ap, 

pointed doom. 
And you to oblivion ! "—More he wouk 

have said. 
But— 
Mahmud. Died— as thoi 

shouldst ere thy lips had pain tec 
Their ruin in the hues of our success. 
A rebel's crime gilt with a rebel'j 

tongue ! 
Your heart is Greek, Hassan. 

Ilast^nn. It may be so ; 

A spirit not my own wrencht me with 

And I have spoken words I fear anc 

hate : 
Yet would I die for — 

Mahinud. Live ! oh live ! outlivtj 
Me and this sinking empire. But thd 
fleet— 
Hassan. Alas !— 



HELLAS. 



^'^'r 



Mahrnud. The fleet which, 

like a flocli of clouds 
;hased by the wind, flies the insurgent 

banner. 

)ur winged-castles from their mer- 
chant ships ! 
)ur myriads before their weak pirate 

bands ! 
)ur arms before their chains ! our 

years of empire 
tefore their centuries of servile fear ! 
)eath is awake ! Repulse is on the 

waters ! 
'hey own no more the thunder-bearing 

banner 
)f Mahmud ; but, like hounds of a 

base breed, 
fOrge from a stranger's hand, and 

rend their master. 
Hassan. Latmos, and Ampelos, and 

Phanse, saw 
'he wreck — 
Mahmud. The caves of the 

Icarian isles 
old each to the other in loud mockery, 
i.nd with the tongue as of a thousand 

echoes, 
I'irst of the sea-convulsing fight— and, 

then, — 
.'hou darest to speak— senseless are 

the mountains : 
nterpret thou their voice ! 
Hassan. My presence bore 

I part in that day's shame. The 

Grecian fleet 
}ore down at daybreak from the 

North, and hung 
^s multitudinous on the ocean line, 
Is cranes upon the cloudless Thracian 

wind. 
)ur squadron, convoying ten thousand 

men, 
,Vas stretching towards Nauplia when 

the battle 
Vas kindled.— 

first thro' the hail of our artillery 
The agile Hydriote barks with press of 

sail 
Dasht:— ship to ship, cannon to cannon, 

man 
To man were grappled in the embrace 

of war, 
nextricable but by death or victory. 
Che tempest of the raging fight con- 

vulst 
Co its crystalline depths that stainless 

sea, 
\ud shook Heaven's roof of golden 

morning clouds. 
Poised on a hundred azure mountain 

isles. 
Ill the brief trances of the artillery 



One cry from the destroyed and the 

destroyer 
Rose, and a cloud of desolation wrapt 
The unforeseen event, till the north 

wind 
Sprung from the sea, lifting the heavy 

veil 
Of battle-smoke— then victory— vic- 
tory ! 
For, as we thought, three frigates from 

Algiers 
Bore down from Naxos to our aid, but 

soon 
The abhorred cross glimmered behind, 

before, 
Among, around us ; and that fatal sign 
Dried with its beams the strength in 

Moslem hearts. 
As the sun drinks the dew.— What 

more ? We fied ! — 
Our noonday path over the sanguine 

foam 
Was beaconed,— and the glare struck 

the sun pale, — 
By our consuming transports ; the 

fierce light 
Made all the shadows of our sails 

blood-red. 
And every countenance blank. Some 

ships lay feeding 
The ravening fire, even to the water's 

level ; 
Some were blown up ; some, settling 

heavily, 
Sunk ; and the shrieks of our compan- 
ions died 
Upon the wind, that bore us fast and 

far. 
Even after they were dead. Nine thou- 
sand perisht ! 
We met the vultures legioned in the air 
Stemming the torrent of the tainted 

wind ; 
They, screaming from their cloudy 

mountain peaks, 
Stoopt thro' the sulphurous battle- 
smoke and percht 
Each on the weltering carcase that we 

loved. 
Like its ill angel or its damned soul 
Riding upon the bosom of the sea. 
We saw the dog-fish hastening to their 

feast. 
Joy waked the voiceless people of the 

sea, 
And ravening Famine left his ocean 

cave 
To dwell with War, with us, and with 

Despair. 
We met night tln-ee hours to the west 

of Patmos, 
And with night, tempest— 



328 



HELLAS. 



Mahmnd. Cease ! 

Enter a Mcsscnxjer. 
Messenger. . Your 

Sublime Highness, 
That Christian hound, the Muscovite 

Ambassador 
Has left the city.— If the rebel fleet 
Had anchored in the port, had victory 
Crowned the Greek legions in the Hip- 
podrome, 
Panic were tamer.— Obedience and 

Mutiny, 
Like giants in contention planet-struck, 
Stand gazing on each other.— There is 

peace 
In Stamboul. — 
Mahmiid. Is the grave not 

calmer still ? 
Its ruins shall be mine. 

Ha,f<sa>i. Fear not the Russian : 

The tiger leagues not with the stag at 

bay 
Against the hunter, — Cunning, base, 

and cruel, 
He crouches, watching till the spoil be 

won, 
And must be paid for his reserve in 

blood. 
After the war is fought, yield the sleek 

Russian, 
That |which thou canst not keep, his 

deserved portion 
Of blood, which shall not flow thro' 

streets and lields, 
Rivers and seas, like that which we 

may win. 
But stagnate in the veins of Christian 

slaves ! 

Enter second Messenger. 
Second Messenger. Nauplia, Trip- 

olizza, Mothon, fAthens, 
Navarin, Artas, Monembasia, 
Corinth, and Thebes are carried by 

assault, 
And every Islamite who made his dogs 
Fat with the flesh of Galilean slaves 
Past at the edge of the sword : the lust 

of blood 
Which made our warriors drunk is 

queneht in death ; 
But like a fiery plague breaks out anew 
In deeds which make the Christian 

cause look pale 
In its own light. The garrisonlof Patras 
Has store but for ten days, nor is there 

hope 
But from the Briton : at once slave and 

tyrant 
His wishes still are weaker than his 

fears. 
Or he would sell what faith may yet 

remain 



From the oaths broke in Genoa and in 

Norway ; 
And if you buy him not, your treasury 
Is empty even of promises— his own 

coin. 
The freedman of a western poet chief 
Holds Attica with seven thousand 

rebels. 
And has beat back the Pacha of Negro- 

pont : 
The aged Ali sits in Yanina 
A crownless metaphor of empire : 
His name, that shadow of his withered 

might. 
Holds our besieging army like a spell 
In prey to famine, pest, and mutiny ; ; 
He, bastioned in his citadel, looks forth 
Joyless upon the sapphire lake that, 

mirrors 
The ruins of the city where he reigned 
Childless and sceptreless. The Greekl 

has reapt 
The costly harvest his own blood ma-i' 

tured. 
Not the sower, Ali— who has bought a; 

truce 
From Ypsilanti with ten camel loads 
Of Indian gold. 

E)iter (I third Messenger. 
Mahmud. W hat more ? 

Third Messenger. The Christian 

tribes 
Of Lebanon and the Syrian wilderness 
Are in revolt ;— Damascus, Hems, 

Aleppo 
Tremble ; — the Arab menaces Medina, , 
The Ethiop has intrencht himself in' 

Sennaar, 
And keeps the Egyptian rebel well em- 
ployed, 
Who denies homage, claims investiture 
As price of tardy aid. Persia demands. 
The cities on the Tigris, and the Geor 

gians ^ 

Refuse their living tribute. Crete ano" 

Cyprus, , 

Like mountain-twins that from eactf 

other's veins 
Catch the volcano-fire and earthquake 

spasm. 
Shake in the general fever. Thro' the 

city. 
Like birds before a storm, the Santonsl 

shriek. 
And prophesyings horrible and new 
Are heard among the crowd : that sea'' 

of men , 

Sleeps on the wrecks it made, breath-*' 

less and still. i. 

A Dervise, learned in the Koran.'' 

preaches 
That it is written how the sins of Islart*' 



HELLAS. 



329 



list raise up a destroyer even now. 

18 Greeks expect a Saviour from the 
west, 

'ho shall not come, men pav, in clouds 
and glory, 

Jt in the omnipresence of that spirit 
which all live and are. Ominous 
signs 

re blazoned broadly on the noonday 
sky : ^ 

16 saw a red cross stampt upon the 
sun ; 
has rained blood ; and monstrous 
births declare 

16 secret wrath of Nature and her 
Lord. 

le army encampt upon the Cydaris, 

as roused last night by the alarm of 
battle, 

id saw two hosts conflicting in the 
air, 

le shadows doubtless of the unborn 
time 

St on the mirror of the night. While 
yet 

le tight hung balanced, there arose a 
storm 

hich swept the phantoms from 
among the stars. 

; the third watch the spirit of the 
plague 

as heard abroad flapping among the 
tents ; 

lose who relieved watch found the 
sentinels dead. 

e last news from the camp is, that a 
thousand 

ive sickened, and— 

Enter a fourth Mcssenqcr. 

W(/?i m It a. And thou, pale 

ghost, dim shadow 

some untimely rumor, speak ! 

?ourth McsKcngar. One comes 

inting with toil, covered with foam 

and blood : 
stood, he says, upon Chelonites' 

amontory, which overlooks the isles 
that groan 

ider the Briton's frown, and all their 
waters 

en trembling in the splendor of the 
moon, 

fien, as the wandering clouds un- 
veiled or hid 

r boundless light, he saw two ad- 
verse fleets 

ilk through the night in the horizon's 
glimmer, 

ngling fierce thunders and sulphure- 
ous gleams, 

.d smoke which strangled every in- 
fant wind 



That;soothed the silver clouds thro' the 

deep air. 
At length the battle slept, but the 

Sirocco 
Awoke, and drove his flock of thunder- 
clouds 
Over the sea-horizon, blotting out 
All objects— save that in the faint 

moon-glimpse 
He saw, or dreamed he saw, the Turk- 
ish admiral 
And two the loftiest of our ships of 

war, 
With the bright image of that Queen 

of Heaven 
Who hid, perhaps, her face for grief, 

reverst ; 
And the abhorred cross— 

Enter an- Attendant. 
Attendant. Your Sublime High- 

ness, 
The Jew, who— 
Mahmnd. Could not come 

more seasonably : 
Bid him attend. I '11 hear no more ! 

too long 
We gaze on danger thro' the mist of 

fear, 
And multiply upon our shattered hopes 
The images of ruin. Come what will ! 
To-morrow and to-morrow are as lamps 
Set in our path to light us to the edge 
Thro' rough and smooth, nor can we 

suff'er aught 
Which he inflicts not in whose hand we 
are. [Exeunt. 

Scmichorus I. 

Would I were the winged cloud 
Of a tempest swift and loud ! 
I would scorn 
The smile of morn 
And the wave where the moonrise is 
born ! 
I would leave 
The spirits of eve 
A shroud for the corpse of the day to 
weave 
From other threads than mine ! 
Bask in the deep blue noon divine 
Who would ? Not I. 

Scniichorus II. 
Whither to fly ? 

Semichorus I. 

Where the rocks that gird the ^gean 
Echo to the battle paean 

Of the free — 

I would flee 



330 



HELLAS. 



A tempestuous herald of victory ! 
My golden rain 
For the Grecian slain 
Should mingle in tears with the bloody 
main, 
And my solemn thunder-knell 
Shouldering to the world the pass- 
ing bell 
Of tyrannJ^ 

Semichorus IT. 

Ah king ! wilt thou chain 
The rack and the rain ? 
Wilt thou fetter the lightning and 
hurricane ? 
The storms are free, 
But we— 

Chorus. 

O Slavery ! thou frost of the world's 
prime, 
Killmg its flowers and leaving its 
thorns bare ! 
Thy touch has stampt these limbs with 
crime. 
These brows thy branding garland 
bear, 
But the free heart, the impassive 
soul 

Scorn thj^ control I 

Semichorus I. 

Let there be light ! said Libertj', 
And like sunrise from the sea, 
Athens arose ! — Around her born. 
Shone like mountains in the morn 
Glorious states ;— and are they now 
Ashes, wrecks, oblivion ? 

Semichorus II. 

Go, 
Where Thermae and Asopus swallowed 

Persia, as the sand does foam. 
Deluge upon deluge followed. 

Discord, Macedon, and Rome : 
And lastly thou ! 

Semichorus I. 

Temples and towers, 
Citadels and marts, and they 

Who live and die there, have been ours. 
And may be thine, and must decay ; 

But Greece and her foundations are 

Built below the tide of war, 

Based on the crystalline sea 

Of thought and its eternity ; 

Her citizens, imperial spirits, 
Rule the present from the past, 



On all this world of men inherits 
Their seal is set. 

ScmicJiorus II. 

Hear ye the bias 
Whose Orphic thunder thrilling cal 
From ruin her Titanian walls ? 

Whose spirit shakes the sapless bonef 
Of Slavery ! Argos, Corinth, Cret' 

Hear, and from their mountain throne 
The dsemons and the nymphs repei 

The harmony. 

Sem^chor^ls I. 

I hear ! I hear ! 

Scmichoms II. 

The world's eyeless charioteei", 
Destiny, is hurrying by ! 
AYhat faith is crusht, what empi), 

bleeds 
Beneath her earthquake-footed steed 
What eagle-winged victory sits ^ 

At her right hand ? what shadow flit 
Before ? what splendor rolls behinci| 
Ruin and renovation cry 
Who but We ? 

Semichorus I. 

I hear ! I hear ! 
The hiss as of a rushing wind. 
The roar as of an ocean foaming, j 
The thunder as of earthquake coming 

I hear ! I hear ! 
The crash as of an empire falling, 
The shrieks as of a people calling 
Mercy ! mercy ! — How they thrill ! 
Then a shout of " kill ! kill ! kill ! " 
And then a small still voice, thus — 

Semichorus II. 

Fe£l 
Revenge and Wrong bring forth th( 
kind. 
The foul cubs like their parents ai. 
Their den is in the guilty mind. 
And Conscience feeds them with c 
spair. 



Semichorus I. 



I 



In sacred Athens, near the fane 
Of Wisdom, Pity's altar stood : 
Serve not the unknown God in vaiiuj 
But pay that broken shrine again. 
Love for hate and tears for blood. I 

Enter Mahmud and Ahasuerus'I' 
Mahmud. Thou art a man, thf 
sa3'est, even as we. 



HELLAS. 



331 



Ahasuerus. No more ! 

Mahmud. But raised above 

thy fellow-men 
f thought, as I by power. 
AhasHcrus. Thou sayest so. 

Mahmud. Thou art an adept in the 

difficult lore 
' Greek and Frank philosophy ; thou 

numberest 
16 flowers and thou measurest the 

stars ; 
lou severest element from element ; 
ly spirit is present in the past, and 

sees 
le birth of this old world thro' all its 

cycles 
' desolation and of loveliness, 
id when man was not, and how man 

became 
le monarch and the slave of this low 

sphere, 
id all its narrow circles— it is much — 
lonor thee, and would be what thou 

art 
ere I not what I am ; but the unborn 

hour, 
adled in fear and hope, conflicting 

storms, 
ho shall unveil ? Nor thou, nor I, 

nor any 
ghty or wise. I apprehended not 
hat thou hast taught me, but I now 

perceive 
at thou art no interpreter of dreams; 
ou dost not own that art, device, or 

God, 
n make the future present — let it 

come ! 
•reover thou disdainest us and ours ; 
ou art as God, whom thou contem- 

platest. 
17ic(SHCci(s. Disdain thee ?— not the 

worm beneath my feet ! 
e Fathomless has care for meaner 

things 
an thou canst dream, and has made 

pride for those 
10 would be what they may not, or 

would seem 
at which tliey are not. Sultan ! 

talk no more 
thee and me, the future and the 

past ; 
t look on that which cannot change 

— the One, 
3 unborn and the undying. Earth 

and ocean, 
ice, and the isles of life or light that 

gem 
3 sapphire floods of interstellar air, 
is firmament pavilioned upon chaos, 
th all its cressets of immortal fire, 



Whose outwall, bastioned impregnably 
Against the escape of boldest thoughts, 

repels them 
As Calpe the Atlantic clouds— this 

Whole 
Of suns, and worlds, and men, and 

beasts, and flowers, 
With all the silent or tempestuous 

workings 
By which they have been, are, or cease 

to be. 
Is but a vision ;— all that it inherits 
Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and 

dreams ; 
Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor 

less 
The future and the past are idle 

shadows 
Of thought's eternal flight— they have 

no being : 

Naught is but that which feels itself 

to be. 

Mahmud. What meanest thou? 

Thy words stream like a tempest 

Of dazzling mist within my brain — 

they shake 
The earth on which I stand, and hang 

like night 
On Heaven above me. What can they 

avail ? 
They cast on all things surest, bright- 
est, best. 
Doubt, insecurity, astonishment. 
Ahasuerus. Mistake me not ! All 
is contained in each. 
Dodona's forest to an acorn's cup 
Is that which has been, or will be, to 

that 
Which is— the absent to the present. 

Thought 
Alone, and its quick elements, Will, 

Passion, 
Reason, Imagination, cannot die ; 
They are, what that which they regard 

appears, 
The stuff whence mutability can 

weave 
All that it hath dominion o'er, worlds, 

worms. 
Empires, and superstitions. What has 

thought 
To do with time, or place, or circum- 
stance ? 
Wouldst thou behold the future ?— ask 

and have ! 
Knock and it shall be opened— look 

and, lo ! 
The coming age is shadowed on the 

past 
As on a glass. 
Mahmud. Wild, wilder thoughts 
convulse 



332 



HELLAS. 



My spirit— Did not Mahomet the 

Second 
Win Stamboul y , ^ . , 

Ahasmrus. Thou wouldst ask 

that giant spirit 
The written fortunes of thy house and 

faith. ^ , 

Thou wouldst cite one out of the grave 

to tell 
How what was born in blood must die. 
Mahmua. Thy words 

Have power on me ! I see— 
Ahasucru><. AVhat hearest thou ? 
Mnhmncl. A far whisper- 
Terrible silence. 
Ahasuerns. What succeeds .■' 
Mnhmud. The .sound 

As of the assault of an imperial city, 
The hiss of inextinguishable fire, 
The roar of giant cannon ; the earth- 
quaking . 
Fall of vast bastions and precipitous 

towers. 
The shock of crags shot from strange 

enginery, 
The clash of wheels, and clang of armed 

hoofs, 
And crash of brazen mail as of the 

wreck 
Of adamantine mountains— the mad 

blast 
Of trumpets, and the neigh of raging 

steeds, 
And shrieks of women whose thrill jars 

the blood, 
And one sweet laugh, most horrible to 

hear, 
As of a joyous infant waked and pl.ay- 

iiig , 

With its dead mother's breast, and now 

more loud 
The mingled battle cry,— ha ! hear I 

" •Ev ToiiTU) ci/cT,." " Allah-illah- Allah '. " 
Ahtimcrux. The sulphurous mist is 

raised— thou seest— 
Mahmnd. A chasm. 

As of two mountains in the wall ot 

Stamboul ; 
And in that ghastly breach the Islam- 
ites, 
Like giants on the ruins of a world, 
Stand in the light of sunrise. In the 

dust 
Glimmers a kingless diadem, and one 
Of regal port has cast himself beneath 
The stream of war. Another proudly 

clad 
In golden arms spurs a Tartarian barb 
Into the gap, and with his iron mace 
Directs the torrent of that tide of men, 
And seems— he is— Mahomet ! 



Ahasuerns. What thou sees 

Is but the ghost of thy forgotten drean 
A dream itself, yet less, perhaps, tha 

that 
Thou call'st reality. Thou mayst b( 

hold 
How cities, on which Empire sleep 

enthroned, 
Bow their towered crests to mutabilit] 
Poised by the flood, e'en on the heigli 

thou boldest, 

Thou mayest now learn how the fu 

tide of power ; 

Ebbs to its depths.— Inheritor of glorj' 

Conceived in darkness, born in bloo(; 

and nourisht 
With tears and toil, thou seest th; 

mortal throes 
Of that whose birth was but the samti 

The Past 
Now stands before thee like an Inca 

nation 
Of the To-come ; yet wouldst tho 

commune with 
That portion of thyself which was ei 

thou 
Didst start for this brief race who>i 

crown is death, 
Dissolved with that strong faith an 

fervent passion 
Which called it from the uncreatO 

deep. 
Yon cloud of war, with its tempests 

ous phantoms 
Of raging death ; and draw wi 

mighty will 
The imperial shade hither. 

[Exit Ahasuerc 
Mahmnd. Approach ! 

Phniitorn. I coE 

Thence whither thou must go ! T. 

grave is titter 

To take the living than give up t 

dead ; T 

Yet has thy faith prevailed, and I a I 

here. f 

The heavy fragments of the pow; 

which fell j 

When I arose, like shapeless crags a^ 

clouds, I 

Hang round my throne on the aby| 

and voices 
Of strange lament soothe my supreij 
repose, i 

Wailing for glory never to return.—] 

A later Empire nods in its decay : \ 
The autumn of a greener faith is con 
And wolfish change, like winter, hOAj 

to strip 
The foliage in which Fame, the eag^^ 
built 



HELLAS. 



333 



ler aerie, while Dominion whelpt be- 
low. 

'he storm is in its branches, and the 
frost 

s on its leaves, and the blank deep 
expects 

)blivion on oblivion, spoil on spoil, 

luin on ruin : — Thou art slow, my son ; 

'he Anarchs of the world of darkness 
keep 

L throne for thee, round which thine 
empire lies 

Joundless and mute ; and for thy sub- 
jects thou, 

iike us, Shalt rule the ghosts of mur- 
dered life, 

'he phantoms of the powers who rule 
thee now— 

lutinous passions, and conflicting 
fears, 

md hopes that sate themselves on 
dust and die ! — 

tript of their mortal strength, as thou 
of thine. 

slam must fall, but we will reign to- 
gether 

)ver its ruins in the world of death : — 

vnd if the trunk be dry, yet shall the 
seed 

Infold itself even in the shape of that 

Vhich gathers birth in its decay. 
Wo ! wo ! 

'o the weak people tangled in the 
grasp 

>f its last spasms. 
Mahrniuh Spirit, wo to all ! 

V^o to the wronged and the avenger ! 
Wo 

'o the destroyer, wo to the destroyed ! 

Vo to the dupe, and wo to the de- 
ceiver ! 

Vo to the opprest, and wo to the op- 
pressor ! 

Vo both to those that suffer and in- 
flict ; 

'hose who are born and those who die ! 
But say, 

mperial shadow of the thing I am, 

Vhen, how, by whom. Destruction 
must accomplish 

[er consummation ? 
PJutntom. Ask the cold pale Hour, 

iich in reversion of impending death, 

Vhen he shall fall upon whose ripe 
gray hairs 

it Care, and Sorrow, and Infirmity — 

he weight which Crime, whose wings 
are plumed with years, 

,eaves in its flight from ravaged heart 
to heart 

tver the heads of men, under which 
burden 



They bow themselves unto the grave : 

fond wretch ! 
He leans upon his crutch, and talks of 

years 
To come, and how in hours of youth 

renewed 
He will renew lost joys, and— 
Voice vjithout. Victory ! Victory ! 
\TJie Phantom vaiiishes. 
Mahmud. What sound of the im- 
portunate earth has broken 
My mighty trance ? 

Voice rvithout. Victory! Victory! 
Mahmud. Weak lightning before 

darkness ! poor faint smile 
Of dying Islam ! Voice which art the 

response 
Of hollow weakness ! Do I wake and 

live? 
Were there such things, or may the 

unquiet brain, 
Vext by the wise mad talk of the old 

Jew, 
Have shaped itself these shadows of 

its fear ? 
It matters not !— for naught we see or 

dream. 
Possess, or lose, or grasp at, can be 

worth 
More than it gives or teaches. Come 

what may, 
The future must become the past, 

and I 
As they were to whom once this present 

hour. 
This gloomy crag of time to which I 

cling, 
Seemed an Elysian isle of peace and 

joy 
Never to be attained. — I must rebuke 
This drunkenness of triumph ere it 

die, 
And dying, bring despair. Victory ! 

poor slaves ! 

[Exit Mahmud. 
Voice without. Shout in the jubi- 
lee of death ! The Greeks 
Are as a brood of lions in the net 
Round which the kingly hunters of the 

earth 
Stand smiling. Anarchs, ye whose 

daily food 
Are curses, groans, and gold, the fruit 

of death 
From Thule to the girdle of the 

world, 
Come, feast ! the board groans with 

the flesh of men ; 
The cup is foaming with a nation's 

blood. 
Famine and Thirst await ! eat, drink, 

and die ! 



331 



HELLAS. 



Semichorus I. 

Victorious "Wrong, with vulture 

scream, 
Salutes the risen sun, pursues the fly- 
ing day ! 
I saw her, ghastly as a tyrants 

dream. 
Perch on the trembling pyramid of 

night. 
Beneath which earth and all her 

realms pavilioned lay 
In visions of the dawning undelight. 

Who shall impede her flight V 

"Who rob her of her prey ? 
Vnivc irithoiit. Victory ! Victory ! 

Russia's famisht t'ugles 
Dare not to prey beneath the crescent's 

light. 
Impale the remnant of the Greeks ! 

despoil ! 
Violate ! make their flesh cheaper 

than dust ! 



Semichorus IT. 

Thou voice which art 

The herald of the ill in splendor hid ! 

Thou echo of the hollow ht'urt 
Of monarchy, bear me to thine abode 
When desolation flashes o'er a world 
destroyed : 
Oh, bear me to those isles of jagged 
cloud 
Which float like mountains on the 
earthquake, mid 
The momentary oceans of the light- 
ning, 
Or to some toppling promontory 

proud 
Of solid tempest whose black pyra- 
mid, 
Riven, overhangs the founts intensely 
brightning 
Of those dawn-tinted deluges of fire 
Before their waves expire, 
When heaven and earth are light, and 

only light 
In the thunder night ! 

Voice without. Victory ! Victory ! 
Austria, Russia, England, 
And that tame serpent, that poor 

shadow, France, 
Cry peace, and that means death when 

monarchs speak. 
Ho, there ! bring torches, sharpen 

those red stakes, 
These chains are light, fitter for slaves 

and Doisoners 
Than Greeks. Kill ! plunder ! burn ! 
let none remain. 



Semichorus I. 

Alas : for Liberty ! 
If numbers, wealth, or unfulfiUing; 
years, 
Or fate, can quell the free ! 
Alas ! for Virtue, when 
Torments, or contumely, or the sneers • 

Of erring judging men 
Can break the heart where it abides. 
Alas ! if Love, whose smile makes this 
obscure world splendid. 
Can change with its false times: 
and tides, 
Like hope and terror,— 
Alas for Love ! 
And Truth, who wanderest lone and; 

unbefriended. 
If thou can.st veil thy lie-consummg; 
mirror 
Before the dazzled eyes of Error, 
Alas for thee ! Image of the Above. ; 



Seinicliorus II. 



Repulse, with plumes from con 
quest torn. 
Led the ten thousand from the hmitsi 
of the morn 
Thro' many an hostile Anarchy ! > 
At length they wept aloud, and cried,i 
"The Sea ! the Sea !" 
Thro' exile, persecution, and de-j 
spair, 
Rome was, and young Atlantis' 

shall become 
The wonder, or. the terror, or 
the tomb 
Of all whose step wakes Power lulled 
in her savage lair : 
But Greece was as a hermit child, 
Whose fairest thoughts and limbs 
were built 
To woman's growth, by dreams so 
mild, 
She knew not pain or guilt ; 
And now, O Victory, blush ! and Em 
pire tremble 
When ye desert the free— j 

If Greece must be 
A wreck, yet shall its fragments re- 

And build themselves again impreg^ 
nably 
In a diviner clime. 
To Amphionic music on some Cape sub-" 

Which frowns above the idle foam oU 
Time. 



HELLAS. 



335 



Semichorus I. 

et the tyrants rule the desert they 

have made ; 
Let the free possess the paradise 

they claim ; 
e the fortune of our fierce oppressors 

weighed 
With our ruin, our resistance, and 

our name ! 

Semichorus II. 

ur dead shall be the seed of their 

decay, 
Our survivors be the shadow of their 

pride, 
ur adversity a dream to pass away — 
Their dishonor a remembrance to 

abide ! 
Voice ivithoHt. Victory ! Victory ! 

The bought Briton sends 
he keys of ocean to the Islamite. — 
bw shall the blazon of the cross be 

veiled, 
.nd British skill directing Othman 

might, 
hunder-strike rebel victory. Oh, keep 

holy 

his jubilee of unrevenired blood ! 
:ill ! crush ! despoil ! Let not a Greek, 

escape ! 

Semichorus I 

Darkness has dawned in the East 

On the noon of time : 
The death-birds descend t® their 
feast, 

From the hungry clime. 
Let Freedom and Peace flee far 

To a sunnier strand, 
And follow Love's folding star 

To the Evening land ! 

Semichorus II. 

The young moon has fed 
Her exhausted horn, 
With the sunset's fire : 
The weak day is dead, 
But the night is not boi'u ; 
nd, like loveliness panting with wild 

desire, 
While it trembles with fear and de- 
light, 
Hesperus flies from awakening 

night, 
nd pants in its beauty and speed with 

light 
j Fast flashing, soft, and bright, 
hou beacon of love ! thou lamp of the 
free ! 



Guide us fai-, far away. 
To climes where now veiled liy the 
ardour of day 
Thou art hidden 
From the waves on which weary 

noon, 
Faints in her summer swoon, 
Between kingless continent sinless 

as Eden, 
Around mountains and islands in- 
violably 
Prankt on the sapphire sea. 

Semichorus I. 

Thro' the sunset of hope, 
Like the shapes of a dream, 
What Paradise islands of glory 
gleam ! 
Beneath Heaven's cope, 
Their shadows more clear float 
by- 
The sound of their oceans, the light 

of their sky. 
The music and fragrance their soli- 
tudes breathe 
Burst, like morning on dream, or like 
Heaven on death 
Thro' the walls of our prison ; 
And Greece, which was dead, is arisen ! 

Chorus. 

The world's great age begins anew, 

The golden years return. 
The earth doth like a snake renew 

Her winter weeds outworn : 
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires 

gleam. 
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains 

From waves serener far ; 
A new Peneus rolls his fountains 

Against the morning star. 
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there 

sleep 
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 

A loftier Argo cleaves the main, 
Fraught with a later prize ; 

Another Orpheus sings again. 
And loves, and weeps, and dies. 

A new Ulysses leaves once more 

Calypso for his native shore. 

Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, 
If earth Death's scroll must be ! 

Nor mix with Laian rage the joy 
Which dawns upon the free : 

Altho' a subtler Sphinx renew 

Riddles of death Thebes never knew. 



336 



FRAGMENTS OF AX UNFINISHED DRAMA. 



Another Athens shall arise, 

And to remoter time 
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, 

The splendor of its prime ; 
And leave, if naught so bright may live. 
All earth can take or Heaven can give. 

Saturn and Love their long repose 
Shall burst, more bright and good 

Than all who fell, than One who rose, 
Than many unsubdued : 

Not gold, not blood, their altar 
dowei's. 

But votive tears and symbol flowers. 

Oh, cease ! must hate and death 
return ? 

Cease ! must men kill and die ? 
Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn 

Of bitter prophecy. 
The world is weary of the past. 
Oh, might it die or' rest at last ! 



FRAGMENTS OF 
AN UNFINISHED DRAMA. 

The following fragments are part of 
a Drama undertaken for the amuse- 
ment of the individuals who composed 
our intimate society, but left unhn- 
ished. I have preserved a sketch of the 
story as far as it had been shadowed in 
the poet's mind. 

An Enchantress, living in one of the 
islands of the Indian Archipelago, 
saves the life of a Pirate, a man of 
savage but noble nature. She becomes 
enamored of him ; and he, inconstant 
to his mortal love, for a while returns 
her passion ; but at length, recalling 
the memory of her whom he left, and 
who laments his loss, he escapes from 
the Enchanted Island, and returns to 
his lady. His mode of life makes him 
again go to sea, and the Enchantress 
seizes the opportunity to bring him, by 
a spirit-brewed tempest, back to her 
Island. M. W. S. 

SCENE, Before the Cavern of the 
Indian Enchantress. The En. 
chantress coinca forth. 

Enchantre^n. 

He came like a dream in the dawn of 

life. 
He tied like a shadow before its 

noon ; 
He is gone, and my peace is turned to 

strife, 



And I wander and wane like thr 

weary moon. J 

Oh, sweet Echo, wake, i 

And for my sake J 

Make answer the while my heart shal 

break ! i 

But my heart has a music which Echo'il 
lips, 1 

Though tender and true, yet can anj 
swer not. 
And the shadow that moves in th^ 
soul's eclipse 
Can return not the kiss by his nov 
forgot ; 

Sweet lips 1 he who hath 
On my desolate path j 

Cast the darkness of absence, worsi; 
than death 1 j 

The Enchantress makes her spell\ 

she is ansirercdbij a Spirit. 
Spirit. Within the silent centre o ; 

the earth 
My mansion is ; where I have lived inf 

sphered ^ 

From the beginning, and around m^; 

sleep 
Have woven all the wondrous imagery, 
Of this dim spot, which mortals call th( 

world ; 
Infinite depths of unknown elements ' 
Massed into one impenetrable mask ; 
Sheets of immeasurable Are, and vein!! 
Of gold and stone, and adamantinn 

iron. I 

And as a veil in which I walk thrc 

Heaven ' 

I liave wrought mountains, seas, an( 

waves, and clouds, 
And lastly light, whose interfusioi 

dawns 
In the dark space of interstellar air. 

A good Spirit, who watches over thi 
Pirate's fate, leads, in a mysteriou- 
manner, the lady of his love to the En 
chanted Isle ; and has also led thithe j 
a Youth, who loves the lady, but whosi" 
passion she returns only with a sisterly j 
affection. The ensuing scene take:] 
place between them on their arrival a 
the Isle, where they meet, but withou 
distinct mutual recognition. i 

[ANOTHER SCENE] , 

Indian Youth and Lady. 

Indian. And, if my grief shouli, 

still be dearer to me 

Than all the pleasures in the world be 

side, j 



FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED DRAMA. 



;337 



Thy would you lighten it ?— 

Lady. I offer only 

hat which I seek, some human sym- 

i pathy 

I this mysterious island. 

Indian. Oh ! my friend, 

y sister, my beloved !— What do I 

say ? 
ly brain is dizzy, and I scarce know 

whether 
speak to thee or her. 
Lady. Peace, perturbed heart ! 

•xm. to thee only as thou to mine, 
le passing wind which heals the brow 

at noon, 
Qd may strike cold into the breast at 

night, 
et cannot linger where it soothes the 

most, 
• long soothe, could it linger. 
Indian. But you said 

ou also loved ? 
Lady. Loved ! Oh, I love. 

Methinks 
lis word of love is fit for all the world, 
id that for gentle hearts another 

name 
ould speak of gentler thoughts than 

the world owns, 
lave loved. 
Indian. And thou love.st 

not ? if so 
)ung as thou art thou canst afford to 

weep. 
Lady. Oh ! would that I could claim 

exemption 
om all the bitterness of that sweet 

name, 
loved, I love, and when I love no 

more 
t joys and grief perish, and leave 

despair 
■ ring the knell of youth. He stood 

beside me, 
.8 embodied vision of the brightest 

dream, 
hich like a daAvn heralds the dav of 

life ; 
e shadow of his presence made my 

world 
: paradise. All familiar things he 

toucht, 
I common words he Spoke, became to 

me 
£6 forms and sounds of a diviner 

world, 
was as is the sun in his fierce youth, 
terrible and lovely as a tempest ; 
came, and went, and left me what 

I am. 
IS ! Why must I think how oft we 

two 
22 



Have sat together near the river 

springs. 
Under the green pavilion which the 

willow 
Spreads on the floor of the unbroken 

fountain. 
Strewn by the nurslings that linger 

there. 
Over that islet paved with flowers and 

moss. 
While the musk-rose leaves, like flakes 

of crimson snow, 
Showered on us, and the dove mourned 

in the pine, 
Sad prophetess of sorrows not her own ? 
The crane returned to her unfrozen 

haunt, 
And the false cuckoo bade the Spring 

good morn ; 
And on a wintry bough the widowed 

bird, 
Hid in the deepest night of ivy-leaves. 
Renewed the vigils of a sleepless sor- 
row. 
I, left like her, and leaving one like her, 
Alike abandoned and abandoning 
(Oh ! unlike her in this !) the gentlest 

youth. 
Whose love had made my sorrows dear 

to him. 
Even as my sorrow made his love to 

me ! 
Indian. One curse of Nature stamps 

in the same mould 
The features of the wretched ; and 

they are 
As like as violet to violet, 
When memory, the ghost, their odors 

keeps 
Mid the cold relics of abandoned joy.— 
Proceed. 
Lady. He was a simple inno- 

cent boy. 
I loved him well, but not as he desired ; 
Yet even thus he was content to be : — 
A short content, for I was — 

Indian \a,^idc\. God of heaven ! 

From such an islet, such a river- 
spring ! — 
I dare not ask her if there stood upon it 
A pleasure-dome surmounted by a cres- 
cent. 
With steps to the blue water. [Aloud.] 

It may be 
That Nature masks in life several 

copies 
Of the same lot, so that the suffei ers 
May feel another's sorrow as their own. 
And find in friendship what they lost 

in love. 
That cannot be : yet it is strange that 
we. 



338 



FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED DRAMA. 



From the same scene, by the same path 

to this 
Realm of abandonment — But speak ! 

yom* breath — 
Your breath is like soft music, your 

words are 
The echoes of a voice which on my 

heart 
Sleeps like a melody of early days. 
But as you said — 

Lady. He was so awful, yet 

So beautiful in mystery and terror, 
Calming me as the loveliness of heaven 
Soothes the unquiet sea :— and yet not 

so. 
For he seemed stormy, and would often 

seem 
A quenchless sun maskt in portentous 

clouds ; 
For such his thoughts, and even his 

actions were ; 
But he was not of them, nor they of 

him, 
But as they hid his splendor from the 

earth. 
Some said he was a man of blood and 

peril. 
And steept in bitter infamy to the 

lips. 
More need was there I should be inno- 
cent. 
More need that I should be most true 

and kind. 
And much more need that there should 

be found one 
To share remorse and scorn and soli- 
tude. 
And all the ills that wait on those who 

do 
The tasks of ruin in the world of life. 
He fled, and I have followed him. 

Indian. Such a one 

Is he who was the winter of my peace. 
But, fairest stranger, when didst thou 

depart 
From the far hills where rise the 

springs of India, 
How didst thou pass the intervening 

sea ? 
Lady. If I be sure I am not dream- 
ing now, 
I should not doubt to say it was a 

dream. 
Methought a star came down from 

heaven, 
And rested mid the plants of India, 
Which I had given a shelter from the 

frost 
Within my chamber. There the me- 
teor lay. 
Panting forth light among the leaves 

and flowers, 



As if it lived, and was outworn with. 

speed ; 
Or that it loved, and passion made thei 

pulse 
Of its bright life throb like an anxious 

heart. 
Till it diffused itself, and all the cham- 
ber 
And walls seemed melted into emerald 

fire 
That burned not ; in the midst of which 

appeared 
A spirit like a child, and laught aloudj 
A thrilling peal of such sweet merri- 
ment 
As made the blood tingle in my warmi 

feet : 
Then bent over a vase, and murnuiring 
Low, unintelligible melodies. 
Placed something in the mould like 

melon seeds, 
And slowly faded, and in pliice of it 
A soft luuid issued from the veil of fire,' 
Holding a cup like a magnoliii flower, j 
And poured upon the earth within thei 

vase 
The element with which it overflowed,' 
Brighter than morning light, and pui-er 

than 
The water of the springs of Himalah. . 
Indian. You waked not ? 
Lady. Not until my dreanci 

became 
Like a child's legend on the tidelesii 

sand, 
Which the first foam erases half, anc, 

half 
Leaves legible. At length I ro.se, anc 

went. 
Visiting my flowers from pot to pot 

and thought 
To set new cuttings in the empty urns 
And when I came to that beside th( 

lattice, 
I saw two little dark-green leaves 
Lifting the light mould at their birth; 

and then 
I half-remembered my forgottei 

dream. 
And day by day, green as a gourd it 

June, 
The plant grew fresh and thick, yet n( 

one knew 
What plant it was ; its stem and ten 

drils seemed 
Like emerald snakes, mottled and dia 

monded 
With azure mail and streaks of wovei 

silver ; . 

And all the sheaths that folded th« 

dark buds 
Rose like the crest of cobra-di-capel, 



FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED DRAMA. 



339 



Until the golden eye of the bright 

flower, 
Through the dark lashos of those 

veined lids, 
Disencumbered of their silent sleep, 
Gazed like a star into the morning 

light. 
Its leaves were delicate, you almost 

saw 
The pulses 
With which the purple velvet flower 

was fed 
To overflow, and like a poet's heart 
Changing bright fancy to sweet senti- 
ment. 
Changed half the light to fragrance. 

It soon fell. 
And to a green and dewy embi'yo-fruit 
Left all its treasured beauty. Day by 

day 
I nurst the plant, and on the double 

flute 
Played to it on the sunny winter 

days 
Soft melodies, as sweet as April rain 
On silent leaves, and sang those words 

in which 
Passion makes Echo taunt the sleeping 

strings ; 
And I would send tales of forgotten 

love 
Late into the lone night, and sing wild 

songs 
Of maids deserted in the olden time. 
And weep like a soft cloud in April's 

bosom 
Upon the sleeping eyelids of the plant. 
So that perhaps it dreamed that Spring 

was come, 
And crept abroad into the moonlight 

air. 
And loosened all its limbs, as, noon by 

noon, 
The sun averted less his oblique beam. 
Ind'Kin. And the plant died not in 

the frost ? 
Lady. It grew ; 

And went out of the lattice which I 

left 
Half open for it, trailing its quaint 

spires 
Along the garden and across the lawn, 
And down the slope of moss and thro' 

the tufts 
Of wild-flower roots, and stumps of 

trees o'ergrown 
With simple lichens, and old hoary 

stones. 
On to the margin of the glassy pool. 
Even to a nook of unblown violets 
And lilies-of-the-val!ey yet unborn, 
Under a pine with ivy overgrown. 



And there its fruit lay like a sleeping 
lizard 

Under the shadows ; bvit when Spring 
indeed 

Came to unswathe her infants, and the 
lilies 

Peept from their bright green masks 
to wonder at 

This shape of Autumn couched in their 
recess. 

Then it dilated, and it grew until 

One half lay floating on the fountain 
wave. 

Whose pulse, elapst in unlike sym- 
pathies. 

Kept time 

Among the snowy water-lily buds. 

Its shape was such as Summer melody 

Of the south wind in spicy vales might 
give 

To some light cloud bound from the 
golden dawn 

To fairy isles of evening, and it seemed 

In hue and form that it had been a 
mirror 

Of all the hues and forms around it and 

Upon it pictured by the sunny beams 

Which, from the bright vibrations of 
the pool. 

Were thrown upon the rafters and the 
roof 

Of boughs and leaves, and on the pil- 
lared stems 

Of the dark sylvan temple, and reflec- 
tions 

Of every infant flower and star of moss 

And veined leaf in the azure odorous 
air. 

And thus it lay in the Elysian calm 

Of its own beauty, floating on the line 

Which, like a film in purest space, 
divided 

The heaven beneath the water from 
the heaven 

Above the clouds ; and every day I 
went 

Watching its growth and wondering ; 

And as the day grew hot, methought 
I saw 

A glassy vapor dancing on the pool. 

And on it little quaint and filmy shapes, 

With dizzy motion, wheel and rise and 
fall, 

Like clouds of gnats with perfect linea- 
ments. 

O friend, sleep was a veil uplift from 
heaven— 

As if heaven dawned upon the world 
of dream — 

When darkness rose on the extin- 
guished day 



340 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



Out of the eastern wilderness. 
Indian. I too 

Have found a moment's paradise in 
sleep 

Half compensate a hell of waking sor- 
row. 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 

DRAMATIS PERSONM. 

King Charles I. 

Queen Henrietta. 

Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. 

Lord Cottington. 

Lord AVeston. 

Lord Coventry. 

Williams, Bishop of Lincoln. 

Secretary Littleton. 

JUXON. 

St. John. 

Archy, the Court Fool. 

Hampden. 

Pym. 

Cromwell. 

Cromwell's Daughter. 

Sir Harry Vane the younger. 

Leighton. 

Bastwick. 

Prvnne. 

Gentlemen of the Inns of Court, Citizens, 
Pursuivants, Marshalsmen, Law Stu- 
dents, Judges, Clerk. 



SCENE I. 



-The Mask of the Inns 
OF Court. 



A PiirsTih'ont. Place, for the Mar- 
shal of the Mask ! 

Firfit Cttizoi. What thinkest thou of 
this quaint mask which turns, 

Like morning from the shadow of the 
night, 

The night to day, and London to a 
place 

Of peace and joy ? 
Second Citizen. And Hell to 

Heaven. 

Eight years are gone. 

And they seem hours, since in this 
populous street 

I trod on grass made green by sum- 
mer's rain, 

For the red plague kept state within 
that palace 

Where now reigns vanity. In nine 
years more 

The roots will be refresht with civil 
blood ; 

And thank the mercy of insulted 
Heaven 



That sin and wrongs wound as an 

orphan's cry, 
The patience of' the great Avenger's 

ear. 
^4 Youth. Yet, father, 't is a happy 

sight to see, 
Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden 
By God or man ;— 't is like the bright 

procession 
Of skyey visions in a solemn dream 
From which men wake as from a para 

dise. 
And draw new strength to tread the 

thorns of life. 
If God be good, wherefore should this 

be evil ? 
And if this be not evil, dost thou not 

draw 
Unseasonable poison from the flowers 
Which bloom so rarely in this barren 

world ? 
Oh, kill these bitter thoughts which 

make the present 
Dark as the future !— 

When Avarice and Tyranny, vigilant 

Fear, 
And open-eyed Conspiracy lie sleeping 
As on Hell's threshold ; and all gentle 

thoughts 
Waken to worship Him who giveth 

joys 
With his own gift. 
Second Citizen. How young art 

thou in this old age of time ! 
How green in this gray world ! Canst 

thou discern 
The signs of seasons, yet perceive no 

hint 
Of change in that stage-scene in which 

thou art 
Not a spectator but an actor ? or 
Art thou a puppet moved by [en- 
ginery] ? 
The day that draws in fire will die in 

storms. 
Even tho' the noon be calm. My 

travel 's done, — 
Before the whirlwind wakes I shall 

have found 
My inn of lasting rest ; but thou must 

still 
Be journeying on in this inclement 

air. 
Wrap thy old cloak about thy back ; 
Nor leave the broad and plain and 

beaten road, 
Altho' no flowers smile on the trodden 

dust, 
For the violet paths of pleasure. This 

Charles the First 
Rose like the equinoctial sun, . . . 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



341 



r vapors, thro' whose threatening 

ominous veil 
irted his altered influence he has 

ais &t of noon-from which he 
xnid^'e^'dSess of conflicting 
dank^extinction and to latest 
'here^gfes the" apostate Stafford ; he 
^^°'^*^"' whispered aphorisms 
'rom Machiavel and Bacon : and, if 

lad bien^as brazen and as bold as he- 
Fim Citizen. That is the Arch- 

SecolT^lizen. Rather say the 

Mondon"" will be soon his Rome : he 

As if he trod upon the heads of men : 
He looks ela?e, drunken with blood and 

^Beside^'^hiAT moves the Babylonian 

■invisiSrand with her as with his 

Mitred adulterer ! he is Jomedin sin 
Which turns Heaven's milk of merc> 
to revenge. 



I Tliird Citizen {lifting up his eyes). 
^Good Lord ! rain it down upon 
'Amid^lSr "ladies walks the papist 
As if *hS^nice feet scorned our Eng- 
I The CanaanSffih Jezebel! I would be 
! A dog if I might tear her with my 

There^'fofd Sir Henry Vane, the Earl 

LordEiranS^ordKeePerS^^^^^ 
And others who make base their ling 

BY vile^mrtSpation of their honors 
With papists, atheists, tyrants, and 

I WhenTw/er's mask 't is time for hon- 

To strt?thl Vizor from their purposes 

A s?Snable t^me for maske^^^.^Unts 
When Englishmen and Protestanis 

^du'sl'of their dishonored heads 
To avert the wrath of him whose 
scourge is felt 



For the great sins which have drawn 
down from Heaven 

and foreign overthrow. _ 
The remnant of the martyred saints m 

Rochefort . „„.^.. 

Have been abandoned by their faith- 
less allies , ,^ .^„ 
To that idolatrous and adulterous tor- 
Lewis^"? France, -the Palatinate is 
lost— 

Enter Leighton {who has been 
brandedi7i the face) and Ba^jTwick. 

rfln<?t thou be— art thou—? 

SSahton. I u'«s Leighton : what 
I am?hou seest. And yet turn thine 

And with thy memory look on thy 

WhicT^s'^thi'nged, and where is 

written deep 
The sentence of my Ju^^f?^;,_ .,^„.„ .jie 
Third Citizen. Are these tne 

marks with which . 

Laud thinks to improve the image of 

I his Maker p „ o r -nvcpa 

Stampt on the face of man ? Curses 
upon him. 

^^sK?tS:^': itissaidb.^ 

That lewd and papist drunkard;, may 

profane 
The Sabbath with their • • • „.,,^„ 
And has permitted that most heathen- 

Of dancing round a pole drest up with 
wreaths 

i^S'So thus twice crucifies his 

Mayw^e?? his brother.-In my 

mind, friend, 
The root of all this ill is prelacy. 
I would cut up the root. , . 

Ttiird Citizen. And by what 

Sec^f Citizen. Smiting each Bishop 

under the fifth nb. 
Third Citizen. You seem to know 
the vulnerable place 
Of these same crocodiles. 

<^pcond Citizen. I learnt it in 

ElypUan bondage, sir. Your worm 

of Nile 
Betrays not with its flattering tears 

For, wheVthfy' cannot kill, they whine 

Nor is^Slirifso greedy of men's bodies 



342 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



As they of soul and all ; nor does it 

wallow 
In slime as they in simony and lies 
And close lusts of the flesh. 
A Alarshalsmcui. Give place, give 

place ! 
You torch-bearers, advance to the 

great gate, 
And then attend the Marshal of the 

Mask 
Into the roj'al presence. 
ji. Law Student. What thinkest 

thou 
Of this quaint show of ours, my aged 

frie^nd y 
Even now we see the redness of the 

torches 
Inflame the night to the eastward, and 

the clarions 
Gasp to us on the wind's wave. It 

conies ! 
And their sounds, floating hither round 

the pageant. 
Rouse up the astonished air. 
First Citizen. I will not think but 

that our countrj''s wounds 
May yet be healed. The king is just 

and gracious, 
Tho' wicked counsels now pervert his 

will : 
These once cast off- 
Second Citizen. As adders cast 

their skins 
And keep their venom, so kings often 

change ; 
Councils and counsellors hang on one 

another. 
Hiding the loathsome . . . 
Like the base patchwork of a leper's 

rags. 
The Yontfi. O, still those dissonant 

thoughts !— List how the music 
Grows on the enchanted air ! And see, 

the torches 
Restlessly flashing, and the crowd di- 
vided 
Like waves before an admiral's 

prow ! 
A Marshalman. Give place 
To the Marshal of the Mask ! 
A Pursuivant. Room for 

the King ! 
The Youth. How glorious ! See 

those thronging chariots 
Rolling, like painted clouds before the 

wind, 
Behind their solemn steeds : how some 

are shaped 
Like curved shells dyed by the azure 

depths 
Of Indian seas ; some like the new-born 

moon ; 



And some like cars in which the RoJ 
mans climbed j 

(Canopied by Victory's eagle-wingJ 
outspread) 1 

The Capitolian !— See how gloriously k 

The mettled horses in the torchlights; 
stir 

Their gallant riders, while they check: 
their pride, 

Like shapes of some diviner element 

Than English air, and beings nobler' 
than 

The envious and admiring multitude. 
Sceoncl Citizen. Ay, there they are- 
Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees, 

Monopolists, and stewards of this poor 
farm, 

On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic ' 
crows. * 

Here is the pomp that strips the house- 
less orphan, . 

Here is the pride that breaks the deso- 
late heart. 

These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, 

Who toil not, neither do they spin,— 
unless 

It be the webs they catch poor rogues j 
withal. 

Here is the surfeit which to them who I 
earn 

The niggard wages of the earth, scarce 
leaves 

The tithe that will support them till 
they crawl 

Back to her cold hard bosom. Here is ( 
health 

Followed by grim disease, glory by 
shame, 

Waste by lame famine, wealth by 
squalid want, 

And England's sin by England's punish- 
ment. « 

And, as the effect pursues the cause "^ 
foregone, ^ 

Lo, giving substance to my words, be- \ 
hold ( 

At once the sign and the thing signi- 
fied— 

A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean 
outcasts, 

Horst upon stumbling jades, carted 
with dung, , 

Dragged for a day from cellars and low 
cabins 

And rotten hiding-holes, to point the i 
moral 

Of this presentment, and bring up the ' 
rear < 

Of painted pomp with misery ! 

The Youth. 'Tis but ' 

The anti-mask, and serves as discords 
do 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



343 



n sweetest music. Who would love 
I May flowers 

't they succeeded not to Winter's flaw ; 
)r day unchanged by night ; or 3oy 

itself 
vVithout the touch of sorrow ? 

Second Citizen. I and thou— 
A Marshalsman. Place, give 

place ! 

3CENE II.— A Chamber in White. 
HALL. Enter the King, Queen, 
Laud, Lord Strafford, Lord Cot- 
TINGTON, and other Lords; Archy ; 
also St. John, with some Gentlemen 
of the Inns of Court. 

King. Thanks, gentlemen. I heart- 
ily accept 
This token of your service : your gay 

mask 
Was performed gallantly. And it 

shows well 
When subjects twine such flowers of 

observance 
With the sharp thorns that deck the 

English crown. 
A gentle heart enjoys what it confers. 
Even as it suffers that which it in- 
flicts, 
Tho' Justice guides the stroke. 
Accept my hearty thanks. 

Queen. And, gentlemen. 

Call your poor Queen your debtor. 

Your quaint pageant 
Rose on me like the figures of past 

years. 
Treading their still path back to in- 
fancy, 
More beautiful and mild as they draw 

nearer 
The quiet cradle. I could have almost 

wept 
To think I was in Paris, where these 

shows 
Are well devised— such as I was ere 

yet 
My young heart shared a portion of the 

burden, 
The careful weight, of this great mon- 

There, gentlemen, between the sov- 
ereign's pleasure 

And that which it regards, no clamor 
lifts 

Its proud interposition. 

In Paris ribald censures dare not move 

Their poisonous tongues against these 
sinless sports ; 

And his smile 

Warms those who bask in it, as ours 
would do 



If 



add 



. Take my heart's thanks 

them, gentlemen, 
To those good words which, were he 

King of France, 
My royal lord would turn to golden 

St. John' Madame, the love of Eng- 
lishmen can make 
The lightest favor of their lawful king 
Outweigh a despot's.— We humbly 

take our leaves 
Enricht by smiles which France can 
never buy. 
[Exeunt St. John a?icl the Gentle- 
men of the Inns of Court. 
King. My Lord Archbishop, 
Mark you what spirit sits in St. John's 

eyes ? 
Methinks it is too saucy for this pres- 

Archy. Yes, pray your Grace look : 
for, like an unsophisticated [eyej sees 
everything upside down, you who are 
wise will discern the shadow of an idiot 
in lawn sleeves and a rochet setting 
springes to catoh woodcocks in hay- 
making time. Poor Archy, whose 
owl-eyes are tempered to the error of 
his age, and because he is a fool, and 
by special ordinance of God forbidden 
ever to see himself as he is, sees now 
in that deep eye a blindfold devil sit- 
ting on the ball, and weighing words 
out between king and subjects. One 
scale is full of promises, and the other 
full of.protestations : and then another 
devil creeps behind the first out of the 
dark windings of a pregnant lawyer's 
brain, and takes the bandage from the 
other's eyes, and throws a sword into 
the left-hand scale, for all the world 
like my Lord Essex's there. 

Strafford. A rod in pickle for the 
Fool's back ! 

Archy. Ay, and some are now smil- 
ing whose tears will make the brine ;^ 
for the fool sees— 

Strafford. Insolent! You shall have 
your coat turned and be whipt out ot 
the palace for this. 

Archy. When all the fools are 
whipt, and all the Protestant writers, 
while the knaves are whipping the 
fools ever since a thief was set to catch 
a thief. If all turncoats were whipt 
out of palaces, poor Archy would be 
disgraced in good company. Let the 
knaves whip the fools, and all the 
fools laugh at it. Let the wise and 
goodly slit each other's noses and ears 
(having no need of any sense of dis- 
cernment in their craft) ; and the 



344 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



knaves, to marshal them, join in a pro- 
cession to Bedlam, to entreat the mad- 
men to omit their sublime Platonic 
contemplations, and manage the state 
of England. Let all the honest men 
who lie pinched up at the prisons or 
the pillories, in custody of the pur- 
suivants of the High-Commission 
Court, marshal them. 

Enter Secretary Lyttelton, ivlth 
pnj)ers. 

King (looking over the papers). These 
stiff Scots 

His Grace of Canterbury must take 
order 

To force under the Church's yoke. — 
You, "VVentworth, 

Shall be myself in Ireland, and shall 
add 

Your wisdom, gentleness, and energy, 

To what in me were wanting. — My 
Lord Weston, 

Look that those merchants draw not 
without loss 

Their bullion from the Tower ; and, 
on the payment 

Of shipmoney, take fullest compen- 
sation 

For violation of our royal forests. 

Whose limits, from neglect, have been 
o'ergrown 

With cottages and cornfields. The 
uttermost 

Farthing exact from those who claim 
exemption 

From knighthood : that which once 
was a reward 

Shall thus be made a punishment, that 
subjects 

May know how majestv can wear at 
will 

The rugged mood.— My Lord of Cov- 
entry, 

Lay my command upon the Courts 
below 

That bail be not accepted for the pris- 
oners 

Under the warrant of the Star Cham- 
ber. 

The people shall not find the stubborn- 
ness 

Of Parliament a cheap or easy method 

Of dealing with their rightful sover- 
eign : 

And doubt not this, my Lord of Coven- 
try, 

We will find time and place for fit re- 
buke. — 

My Lord of Canterbury. 
Archy. The fool is here. 



Laud. I crave permission of your i 
Majesty 

To order that this insolent fellow be i 

Chastised : he mocks the sacred 
character, 

Scoffs at the state, and— 
King. What, my Archy ? j 

He mocks and mimics all he sees and 1 

• hears. 

Yet with a quaint and graceful license 
— Prithee 

For this once do not as Prynne would, 
were he 

Primate of England. With your 
Grace's leave. 

He lives in his own world ; and, like a 
parrot 

Hung in his gilded prison from the 
window 

Of a queen's bower over the public 
way. 

Blasphemes with a bird's mind :— his 
words, like arrows 

Which know no aim beyond the 
archer's wit, 

Strike sometimes what eludes philos- 
ophy.— 

{To Akchy.) Go, sirrah, and repent of 
j'our offence 

Ten minutes in the rain ; be it your 
penance 

To bring news how the world goes 
there. 

[Exit Archy. 
Poor Archy ! 

He weaves about himself a world of 
mirth 

Out of the wreck of ours. 
Laud. I take with patience, as my 
Master did. 

All scoffs permitted from above. 
King. My lord. 

Pray overlook these papers. Archy's 
words 

Had wings, but these have talons. 
Queen. And the lion 

That wears them must be tamed. My 
dearest lord, 

I see the new-born courage in your eye 

Armed to strike dead the spirit of the 
time, 

Which spurs to rage the many-headed 
beast. 

Do thou persist : for, faint but in re- 
solve, 

And it were better thou hadst still re- 
mained 

The slave of thine own slaves, who tear 
like curs 

The fugitive, and flee from the pur- 
suer ; 

And Opportunity, that empty wolf. 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



345 



lies at his tlaroat who falls. Subdue 

thy actions 
ven to the disposition of thy pur- 
pose, 
nd be that tempered as the Ebro's 

steel ; 
nd banish weak-eyed Mercy to the 

weak, 
/"hence she will greet thee with a gift 

of peace, 
nd not betray thee with a traitor's 

kiss, 
s when she keeps the company of 

rebels, 
Tho think that she is Fear. This do, 

lest we 
liould fall as from a glorious pinnacle 
1 a bright dream, and wake as from 

a dream 
ut of our worshipt state. 
King. Beloved friend, 

od is my witness that this weight of 

power, 
/"hich he sets me my earthly task to 

wield 
nder this law, is my delight and pride 
nly because thou lovest that and me. 
or a king bears the office of a God 
all the under world ; and to his God 
lone he must deliver up his trust, 
nshorn of its permitted attributes, 
t seems] now as the baser elements 
ad mutinied against the golden sun 
hat kindles them to harmony, and 

quells 
heir self-destroying rapine. The 

wild million 
trike at the eye that guides them ; 

like as humors 
f the distempered body that conspire 
gainst the spirit of life throned in the 

heart, — 
nd thus become the prey of one 

another, 
nd last of death— 
Strajford. That which would be 

ambition in a subject 
! duty in a sovereign ; for on him, 
.s on a keystone, hangs the arch of 

life, 
f hose safety is its strength. Degree 

and form, 
.nd all that makes the age of reason- 
ing man 
[ore memorable than a beast's, depend 
n this — that Right should fence itself 

inviolably 
nth power ; " in which respect the 

state of England 
rom usurpation by the insolent com- 
mons 
ries for reform. 



Get treason, and spare treasure. Fee 
with coin 

The loudest murmurers ; feed with jeal- 
ousies 

Opposing factions,— be thyself of none ; 

And borrow gold of many, for those 
who lend 

Will serve thee till thou payest them ; 
and thus 

Keep the fierce spirit of the hour at 
bay. 

Till time, and its coming generations 

Of nights and days unborn, bring some 
one chance, 



Or war, or pestilence, or Nature's self, 
By some distemperature or terrible 

sign. 
Be as an arbiter betwixt themselves. 

Nor let your Majesty 
Doubt here the peril of the unseen 

event. 
How did your brother kings, coheritors 
In your high interest in the subject 

earth, 
Rise past such troubles to that height 

of power 
Where now they sit, and awfully 

serene 
Smile on the trembling world ? Such 

popular storms 
Philip the Second of Spain, this Lewis 

of France, 
And late the German head of many 

bodies. 
And every petty lord of Italy, 
Quelled or by arts or arms. Is Eng- 
land poorer 
Or feebler ? or art thou who wield'st 

her power 
Tamer than they ? or shall this island 

be— 
[GirdledJ by its inviolable waters— 
To the world present and the world to 

come 
Sole pattern of extinguisht monarchy ? 
Not if thou dost as I would have thee 

do. 
King. Your words shall be my 

deeds : 
You speak the image of my thought. 

My friend 
(If kings can have a friend, I call thee 

SO), 

Beyond the large commission which 

belongs 
Under the great seal of the realm, take 

this : 
And, for some obvious reasons, let 

there be 
I No seal on it, except my kingly word 



346 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



And honor as I am a gentleman. 

Be— as thou art within my heart and 
mind— 

Another self, here and in Ireland : 

Do what thou judgest well, take am- 
plest license, 

And stick not even at questionable 
means. 

Hear me. Went worth. My word is as 
a wall 

Between thee and this world thine 
enemy — 

That hates thee, for thou lovest me. 
Strafford. I own 

No friend but thee, no enemies but 
thine : 

Thy lightest thought is my eternal law. 

How weak, how short, is life to pay— 
King. Peace, peace ! 

Thou ow'st me nothing yet. 
(To Laud.) My lord, what say 

Those papers ? 
Laud. Your Majesty has ever in- 
terposed, 

In lenity towards your native soil. 

Between the heavy vengeance of the 
Church 

And Scotland. Mark the consequence 
of warming 

This brood of northern vipers in your 
bosom. 

The rabble, instructed no doubt 

By Loudon, Lindsay, Hume, and false 
Argyll 

(For the waves never menace heaven 
until 

Scourged by the wind's invisible tyr- 
anny), 

Have in the very temple of the Lord 

Done outrage to his chosen ministers. 

They scorn the liturgy of the holy 
Church, 

Refuse to obey her canons, and deny 

The apostolic power with which the 
Spirit 

Has filled its elect vessels, even from 
him 

"Who held the keys with power to loose 
and bind, 

To him who now pleads in this royal 
presence.— 

Let ampler powers and new instruc- 
tions be 

Sent to the High Commissioners in 
Scotland. 

To death, imprisonment, and confisca- 
tion, 

Add torture, add the ruin of the kin- 
dred 

Of the offender, add the brand of in- 
famy, 

Add mutilation : and if this suffice not, 



Unleash the sword and fire, and ii 

their thirst 
They may lick up that scum of schis, 

matics. 
I laugh at those weak rebels who, d€i 

siring 
What we possess, still prate of Chris 

tian peace. 
As if those dreadful arbitrating mes 

sengers 
Which play the part of God 'twixt righ 

and wrong, 
Should be let loose against the innocen 

sleep 
Of templed cities and the smiling fields 
For some poor argument of policy 
Which touches our own profit or ou 

pride, 
(Where it indeed were Christian 

charity 
To turn the cheek even to the smiterV 

hand :) 
And, when our great Redeemer, whei 

our God, 
When he who gave, accepted, and re 

tained, ' 

Himself in propitiation of our sins. 
Is scorned in his immediate ministry. 
With hazard of the inestimable loss 
Of all the truth and discipline which ii 
Salvation to the extremest generatior' 
Of men innumerable, they talk ol 

peace ! 
Such peace as Canaan found, let Scot' 

land now : 
For, by that Christ who came to brin? 

a sword. 
Not peace, upon the earth, and gav( 

command 
To his disciples at the passover 
That each should sell his robe and buy 

a sword, — 
Once strip that minister of naked 

wrath, 
And it shall never sleep in peace agaic 
Till Scotland bend or break. 
King. My Lord Arch- 

bishop, 
Do what thou wilt and what thou canst 

in this. 
Thy earthly even as thy heavenly 

King 
Gives thee large power in his unquiet 

realm. 
But we want money, and my mind mis- 
gives me 
That for so great an enterprise, as yet,i 
We are unfurnisht. 
St ra fo rd. Yet it may not 

long 
Rest on our wills. 
Cottington. The expenses 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



U7 



Of gathering sliipmoney, and of dis- 
training 

For every petty rate (for we encounter 

A desperate opposition inch by inch 

In every warehouse and on every 
farm) 

Have swallowed up the gross sum of 
the imposts ; 

So that, tho' felt as a most grievous 
scourge 

Upon the land, they stand us in small 
stead 

As touches the receipt. 
Strafford. 'T is a conclu- 

sion 

Most arithmetical : and thence you 
infer 

Perhaps the assembling of a parlia- 
ment. 

Now, if a man .should call his dearest 
enemies 

To sit in licensed judgment on his life, 

His Majesty might wisely take that 
course. 

\ Aside to Cottington. 

It is enough to expect from these lean 
imposts 

That they perform the office of a 
scourge, 

Without more profit. {Aloud.) Fines 
and confiscations. 

And a forced loan from the refractory 
city. 

Will fill our coffers : and the golden 
love 

Of loyal gentlemen and noble friends 

For the worshipt father of our com- 
mon country, 

With contributions from the Catholics, 

Will make Rebellion pale in our excess. 

Be these the expedients until time and 
wisdom 

Shall frame a settled state of govern- 
ment. 
Laud. And weak expedients they ! 
Have we not drained 

All, till the which seemed 

A mine exhaustless ! 
Strafford. And the love 

which is, 

If loyal hearts could turn their blood 
to gold. 
Laud. Both now grow barren : and 
I speak it not 

As loving parliaments, which, as they 
have been 

In the right hand of bold bad mighty 
kings 

The scourges of the bleeding Church, I 
hate. 

Methinks they scarcely can deserve 
our fear. 



Strafford. Oh ! ray dear liege, take 

back the wealth thou gavest : 
With that, take all I held, but as in 

trust 
For thee, of mine inheritance : leave 

me but 
This unprovided body for thy service. 
And a mind dedicated to no care 
Except thy safety : — but assemble not 
A parliament. Hundreds will bring, 

like me. 
Their fortunes, as they would their 

blood, before — 
King. No ! thou who judgest them 

art but one. Alas ! 
We should be too much out of love 

with Heaven, 
Did this vile world show many such as 

thee. 
Thou perfect, just, and honorable 

man ! 
Never shall it be said that Charles of 

England 
Stript those he loved for fear of those 

he scorns ; 
Nor will he so much misbecome his 

throne 
As to impoverish those who most adorn 
And best defend it. That you urge, 

dear Strafford, 
Inclines me rather — 
Queen. To a parlia- 

ment ? 
Is this thy firmness ? and thou wilt pre- 
side 
Over a knot of censurers. 

To the unswearingof thy best resolves, 
And choose the worst, when the worst 

comes too soon ? 
Plight not the worst before the worst 

must come. 
Oh, wilt thou smile whilst our ribald 

foes, 
Brest in their own usurpt authority, 
Sharpen their tongues on Henrietta's 

fame ? 
It is enough ! Thou lovest me no more ! 

[ Weeps. 
King. Oh. Henrietta ! 

[They talk apart. 
Cottington {to Laud). Money we 

have none : 
And all the expedients of my Lord of 

Strafford 
Will scarcely meet the arrears. 
Laud. Without 

delay 
An army must be sent into the north ! 
Followed by a Commission of the 

Church, 
With amplest power to quench in fire 

and blood, 



348 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



And tears and terror, and the pity of 

hell, 
The intenser wrath of Heresy. God 

will give 
Victory ; and victory over Scotland 

give 
The lion England tamed into our hands. 
That will lend power, and power bring 

gold. 
Cottingtnn. Meanwhile 

We must begin first where your Grace 

leaves off. 
Gold must give power, or— 

Laud. 1 am not averse 

From the assembling of a parliament. 
Strong actions and smooth words 

might teach them soon 
The lesson to obey. And are they 

not 
A bubble fashioned by the monarch's 

mouth, 
The birth of one light breath ? If they 

serve no purpose, 
A word dissolves them. 

Strafford. The engine of parlia- 
ments 
Might be deferred until I can bring 

over 
The Irish regiments : they will serve 

to assure 
The issue of the war against the Scots. 
And, this game won— which if lost, all 

is lost- 
Gather these chosen leaders of the 

rebels, 
And call them, if you will, a parlia- 
ment. 
King. Oh, be our feet still tardy to 

shed blood, 
Guilty tho' it may be I I would still 

"^spare 
The stubborn country of my birth, and 

ward 
From countenances which I loved in 

youth 
The wrathful Church's lacerating 

hand. 
(To L.\UD). Have you o'erlookt the 

other articles ? 

[Rc-cntcr Akchy. 
Laud. Hazlerig. Hampden, Pym, 

young Harry Vane, 
Cromwell, and other rebels of less 

note. 
Intend to sail with the next favoring 

wind 
For the Plantations. 

Archy. Where they think to found 
A commonwealth like Gonzalo's in the 

play, 
Gynsecocoenic and pantisocratic. 
King. What's that, sirrah ? 



Archy. New devil's politics 

Hell is the pattern of all common- f 
wealths : *' 

Lucifer was the first republican. ^ 

Will you hear Merlin's prophecy, how * 
three posts 
" In one brainless skull, when the i 
whitethorn is full, : 

Shall sail round the world, and come f 

back again : 
Shall sail round the world in a braia 

less skull. 
And come back again when the mooa i 
is at full : "— 
When, in spite of the Church, 
They will hear homilies of whatever 

length 
Or form they please. 
Cottingtn)i. So please j'our Majesty 
to sign this order 
For their detention. 

Archy. If your Majesty were tor- 
mented night and day by fever, gout, 
rheumatism, and stone, and asthma, , 
etc., and you found these diseases had I 
secretly entered into a conspiracj' to 
abandon you, should you think it neces- I 
sary to lay an embargo on the port by f 
which they meant to dispeople your 1 
unquiet kingdom of man ? { 

King. If fear were made for kings, j 
the Fool mocks wisely ; l 

But in this case— (writing). Here, my j 
lord, take the warrant, | 

And see it duly executed forthwith.— j 
That imp of m'alice and mockery shall I 
be punisht. J 

[Erc^int nil but King, Queen, , 
and Archy. 
Archy. Ay, I am the physician of '' 
whom Plato prophesied, who was to be _ 
accused by the confectioner before a ' 
jury of children, who found him guilty , 
without waiting for the summing-up, '■ 
and hanged him without benefit or ; 
clergy. Thus Baby Charles, and the ; 
Twelfth-night Queen of Hearts, and , 
the overgrown schoolboy Cottington, ■ 
and that little urchin Laud— who : 
would reduce a verdict of "guilty, ' 
death," by famine, if it were impreg- , 
nable by" composition— all impanelled ' 
against poor Archy for presenting 
them bitter physic the last day of the 
holidays. 
Queen. Is the rain over, sirrah ? 
King. When it rains 

And the sun shines, 't will rain again ij 
to-morrow : '< 

And therefore never smile till you 've 
done crying. 
Archy. But 't is all over now : like 



CHAllTiES TITE FTTtST. 



349 



e April anger of woman, the gentle 
y has wept itself serene. 
Queen. What news abroad ? how 
)ks the world this morning ? 
Archy. Gloriously as a grave 
vered with virgin flowers. There 's 
•ainbow in the sky. Let your Majesty 
)k at it, for 

" A rainbow in the morning 
Is the shepherd's warning ; " 

id the flocks of which you are the 
,stor are scattered among the moun- 
in tops, where every drop of water 
a flake of snow, and the breath of 
ay pierces like a January blast. 
King. The sheep have mistaken the 
olf for their shepherd, my poor boy ; 
id the shepherd, the wolves for their 
atchdogs. 

Queen. But the rainbow was a good 
gn, Archy : it says that the waters of 
le deluge' are gone, and can return 
) more. 

Arclu/. Ay, the salt-water one: 
lit that of tears and blood must yet 
)me down, and that of fire follow, if 
lere be any truth in lies.— The rain- 
3W hung over the city with all its 
lops, . . . and churches, from 
orth to south, like a bridge of con- 
regated lightning pieced by the 
lasonry of heaven— like a balance in 
'hich the angel that distributes the 
aming hour was weighing that heavy 
ne whose poise is now felt in the light- 
st hearts, before it bows the proudest 
eads under the meanest feet. 

Queen. Who taught you this trash, 
irrah ? 

Archy. A torn leaf out of an old 
ook trampled in the dirt.— But for the 
ainbow. It moved as the sun moved, 
,nd . . . until the top of the 
"ower ... of a cloud through its 
3ft-hand tip, and Lambeth Palace look 
,s dark as a rock before the other. 
Rethought I saw a crown figured upon 
■ne tip, and a mitre on the other. So 
.s I had heard treasures were found 
vhere the rainbow quenches its points 
ipon the earth, I set off, and at the 
Power- But I shall not tell your 
Majesty what I found close to the 
iloset-window on which the rainbow 
iiad glimmered. 

! Kinxj. Speak : I will make my Fool 
ny conscience. 

I Archy. Then conscience is a fool.— 
i[ saw there a cat caught in a rat-trap. 
|[ heard the rats squeak behind the 



wainscots : it seemed to me that the 
very mice were consulting on the 
manner of her death. 
Queen. Archy is shrewd and bitter. 
Arcliy. Like the season, 

so blow" the winds.— But at the other 
end of the rainbow, where the gray 
rain was tempered along the grass and 
leaves by a tender interfusion of violet 
and gold in the meadows beyond 
Lambeth, what think you that I found 
instead of a mitre ? 
King. Vane's wits perhaps. 
Archy. Something as vain. I saw 
a gross vapor hovering in a stinking 
ditch over the carcass of a dead ass, 
some rotten rags, and broken dishes— 
the wrecks of what once administered 
to the stuffing out and the ornament of a 
worm of worms. His G-race of Canter- 
bury expects to enter the New Jeru- 
salem some Palm Sunday in triumph 
on the ghost of this ass. 
Queen. Enough, enough ! Go de- 
sire Lady Jane 
She place my lute, together with the 

music 
Mari received last week from Italy, 
In my boudoir, andi— [Exit Archy. 
King. I'll so in. 

Queen. My beloved lord, 

Have you not noted that the Fool of 

late 
Has lost his careless mirth, and that nis 

words 
Sound like the echoes of our saddest 

fears ? 
What can it mean ? I should be loath 

to think 
Some factious slave had tutored him. 

King. Oh, no ! 

He is but Occasion's pupil. Partly 't is 
That our minds piece the vacant in- 
tervals 
Of his wild words with their own 

fashioning,— 
As in the imagery of summer clouds, 
Or coals of the winter fire, idlers find 
The perfect shadows of their teeming 

thoughts : 
And partly, that the terrors of the 

time 
Are sown by wandering Rumor in all 

spirits ; 
And in the lightest and the least, may 

best 
Be seen the current of the coming 
wind. 
Queen. Your brain is overwrought 
with these deep thoughts. 
Come, I will sing to you ; let us go try 
These airs from Italy ; and, as we pass 



350 



CHAKLES THE FIRST. 



The gallery, we'll decide where that 

Correggio 
Shall hang— the Virgin Mother 
With her child, born the King of heav- 
en and earth, 
Whose reign is men's salvation. And 

you shall see 
A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, 
Stampt on the heart by never-erring 

love ; 
Liker than any Vandyke ever made, 
A pattern to the unborn age of thee. 
Over whose .sweet beauty I have wept 

for joy 
A thou.sand times, and now should 

weep for sorrow. 
Did I not think after we were dead 
Our fortunes would spring high in him, 

and that 
The cares we waste upon our heavy 

crown 
Would make it light and glorious as a 

wreath 
Of Heaven's beams for his dear inno- 
cent brow. 
King. Dear Henrietta ! 

SCENE ni.-TiiE Star Chamber. 
Laud, Juxon, Strafford, and 
others as Judges. Prynne as a 
prisoner, and then Bastwick. 

Laud. Bring forth the prisoner 

Bastwick : let the clerk 
Recite his sentence. 
Clerk. " That he pay five 

thousand 
Pounds to the king, lose both his ears, 

be branded 
With red-hot iron on the cheek and 

forehead. 
And be imprisoned within Lancaster 

Castle 
During the pleasure of the Court." 

Land. Prisoner, 

If you have aught to say wherefore 

this sentence 
Should not be put into effect, now 

speak. 
Juxnn. If you have aught to plead 

in mitigation, 
Speak. 
Bastwick. Thus, my lords. If, 

like the prelates, I 
Were an invader of the royal power, 
A public scorner of the word of God, 
Profane, idolatrous, popish, super- 
stitious. 
Impious in heart and in tyrannic act. 
Void of wit, honesty, and temperance ; 
If Satan were my lord, as theirs,— our 
God Pattern of all I should avoid to do ; 



\\ ere I an enemy of my God and Kin 
And of good men, as ye are ;— I shoul 

merit 
Your fearful state and gilt prosper' 

ity, : 

Which, when ye wake from the lafi 

sleep, shall turn 
To cowls and robes of everlasting fire* 
But, as I am, I bid ye grudge me not 
The only earthly favor ye can yield, 
Or I think worth acceptance at you 

hands,— 
Scorn, mutilation, and imprisonmenl: 

Even as my Master did. 
Until Heaven's kingdom shall descent 

on earth. 
Or earth be like a shadow in the lighl 
Of heaven absorbed— some few tumul 

tuous years 
Will pass, and leave no wreck of wha; 

opposes 
His will whose will is power. 
Land. Officer, take the prisons, 

from the bar, I 

And be his tongue slit for his insolence- 

Bastwick. While his hand holds ; 

pen— 
Laud. Be his hands- 

Ju.ron. stop 

Forbear, my Lord ! The tongue, whicl 

now can speak 
No terror, would interpret, being 

dumb. 
Heaven's thunder to our harm ; . . ' 
And hands, which now write only theiii 

own shame. 
With bleeding stumps might sign oui 

blood away. 
Laud. Much more such "mercy' 

among men would be. 
Did all the ministers of Heaven's re- 
venge 
Flinch thus from earthly retribution. ] 
Could suffer what I would inflict. 

[Exit Bastwick guarded. 

Bring up 

The Lord Bishop of Lincoln.— 
(To Strafford). Know you not 

That, in destraining for ten thousand 
pounds 

Upon his books and furniture at 
Lincoln, 

Were found these scandalous and sedi- 
tious letters 

Sent from one Osbaldistone, who is 
fled. 

I speak it not as touching this poor 
person ; 

But of the office which should make it 
holy. 

Were it as vile as it was ever spotless. 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



351 



[Mark too, my lord, that this expression 

strikes 
His Majesty, if I misinterpret not. 
Enter Bishop Williams guarded. 
Strafford. 'T were politic and just 
■ that Williams taste 

The bitter fruit of his connection with 
The schismatics. But you, my Lord 

Archbishop, 
Who owed your first pi-omotion to his 
) favor, 

Who grew beneath his smile- 
Low d. Would therefore beg 
The office of his judge from this High 

Court,— 
That it shall seem, even as it is, that I, 
In my assumption of this sacred robe. 
Have put aside all worldly preference, 
All sense of all distinction of all per- 
sons. 
All tlioughts but of the service of the 

Church.— 
Bishop of Lincoln ! 

Williams. Peace, proud hierarch ! 
I know my sentence, and I own it just. 
Thou wilt repay me less than I deserve, 
In stretching to the utmost 



SCENE IV.— Hampden, Pym, Crom- 
well, his Daughter, and young 
Sir Harry Vane. 

Hampden. England, farewell, thou 
who hast been my cradle, 

Shalt never be my dungeon or my 
gra^ve ! 

I held what I inherited in thee. 

As pawn for that inheritance of free- 
dom 

Which thou hast sold for thy de- 
spoiler's smile : 

How can I call thee England, or my 
country ? — 

Does the wind hold ? 

Vane. The vanes sit steady 

Upon the Abbey towers. The silver 
lightnings 

Of the evening star, spite of the city's 
smoke, 

Tell that the north wind reigns in the 
upper air. 

Mark too that flock of fleecy winged 
clouds 

Sailing athwart St. Margaret's. 
Hampden. Hail, fleet herald 

Of tempest ! that rude pilot who shall 
guide 

Hearts free as his, to realms as pure as 
thee, 

Beyond the shot of tyranny, 



Beyond the webs of that swoln 

spider. . . 
Beyond the curses, calumnies, and lies 
Of atheist priests ! And thou 

Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide 

Atlantic, 
Athwart its zones of tempest and of 

calm, 
Bright as the path to a beloved home, 
Oh, light us to the isles of the evening 

land ! 
Like floating Edens cradled in the glim- 
mer 
Of sunset, through the distant mist of 

years 
Toucht by departing hope, thy gleam ! 

lone regions, 
Where power's poor dupes and victims 

ye have never 
Propitiated the savage fear of king.s 
With purest blood of noblest hearts ; 

whose dew 
Is yet unstained with tears of those 

who wake 
To weep each day the wrongs on which 

it dawns ; 
Whose sacred silent air owns yet no 

echo 
Of formal blasphemies ; nor impious 

rit6s 
Wrest man's free worship, from the 

God who loves, 
To the poor worm who envies us his 

love 
Receive, thou young of Paradise, 

These exiles from the old ajid sintul 
world ! 

This glorious clime, this firmament, 
whose lights . 

Dart mitigated influence thro their 
veil 

Of pale blue atmosphere ; whose tears 
keep green . . 

The pavement of this moist all-teeding 
earth ; 

This vaporous horizon, whose dim 
round 

Is bastioned by the circumfluous sea. 

Repelling invasion from the sacred 
towers, 

Presses upon me like a dungeon's grate, 

A low dark roof, a damp and narrow 
wall. 

The boundless universe 

Becomes a cell too narrow for the soul 

That owns no master ; while the loath- 
liest ward . 

Of this wide prison, England, is a nest 

Of cradling peace built on the moun- 
tain tops,— 



353 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



To which the eagle spirits of the free, 

Which range thro' heaven and earth, 
and scorn the storm 

Of time, and gaze upon the light of 
truth, 

Return to brood on thoughts that can- 
not die 

And cannot be repelled. 

Like eaglets floating in the heaven of 
time. 

They soar above their quarry, and shall 
stoop 

Thro' palaces and temples thunder- 
proof. 

SCENE V. 

Archy. I'll go live under the ivy 
that overgrows the terrace, and count 
the tears shed on its old roots as the 
[wind] plays the song of 

" A widow bird sate mourning 
Upon a wintry bough." 

[Sings.] 

Heigho ! the lark and the owl ! 
One flies the morning, and one lulls 
the night :-- 
Only the nightingale, poor fond soul. 
Sings like the fool through darkness 
and light. 

" A widow bird sate mourning for her 
love. 

Upon a wintry bough ; 
The frozen wind crept on above, 

The freezing stream below. 

" There was no leaf upon the forest 
bare, 

No flower upon the ground. 
And little motion in the air 

Except the mill-wheel's sound." 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 

Swift as a spirit hastening to his task 
Of glory and of good, the Sun sprang 

forth 
Rejoicing in his splendor, and the mask 

Of darkness fell from the awakened 

Earth— 
The smokeless altars of the mountain 

snows 
Flamed above crimson clouds, and at 

the birth 



Of light, the Ocean's orison arose, 

To which the birds tempered their 

matin lay. 
All flowers in field or forest which un- 
close 

Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of 

day. 
Swinging their censers in the element, 
With orient incense lit by the new ray 

Burned slow and inconsumably, and 

sent 
Their odorous sighs up to the smiling 

air ; 
And, in succession due, did continent, 

Isle, ocean, and all things that in them 

wear 
The form and character of mortal 

mould. 
Rise as the Sun their father rose, to 

bear 

Their portion of the toil, which he of 
old 

Took as his own, and then imposed 
on them : 

But I, whom thoughts which must re- 
main untold 

Had kept as wakeful as the stars that 

gem 
The cone of night, now they were laid 

asleep 
Stretcht my faint limbs beneath the 

hoary stem 

Which an old chestnut flung athwart 

the steep 
Of a green Apennine : before me fled 
The night ; behind me rose the day ; 

the deep 

Was at my feet, and Heaven above my 

head, 
When a strange trance over my fancy 

grew 
Which was not slumber, for the shade 

it spread 

Was so transparent, that the scene 

came thro' 
As clear as when a veil of light is 

drawn 
O'er evening hills they glimmer ; and 

I knew 

That I had felt the freshness of that 
dawn, 



THE TPvIUMPH OF LIFE. 



353 



bathed in the same cold dew my brow 

and hair, 
yid sat as thus upon that slope of 

lawn 

Jnder the self-same bough, and heard 
as there 

?he birds, the fountains and the ocean 
hold 

?weet talk in music thro' the ena- 
moured air, 

^nd then a vision on my brain was 
rolled. 



^s in that trance of wondrous thought 

Hay, 
]'his was the tenor of my waking 

dream : — 
lethought I sate beside a public way 

'hick strewn with summer dust, and 

a great stream 
)f people there was hurrying to and 

fro, 
Numerous as gnats upon the evening 

gleam, 

Lll hastening onward, yet none seemed 

to know 
Vhither he went, or whence he came, 

or why 
le made one of the multitude, and so 

Vas borne amid the crowd, as thro' 
the sky 

)ne of the million leaves of summer's 
bier ; 

)Id age and youth, manhood and in- 
fancy 

lixt in one mighty torrent did appear, 
lOme flying from the thing they feared, 

and some 
.eeking the object of another's fear ; 

ind others as with steps towards the 

tomb, 
*ored on the trodden worms that 

crawled beneath, 
Lnd others mournfully within the 

gloom 

)f their own shadow walkt and called 

it death ; 
k.nd some fled from it as it were a 

ghost, 
lalf fainting in the affliction of vain 

breath : 



But more, with motions which each 

other crost, 
Pursued or shunned the shadows the 

clouds threw, 
Or birds within the noonday ether lost, 

Upon that path where flowers never 
grew, — 

And, weary with vain toil and faint 
for thirst. 

Heard not the fountains, whose melo- 
dious dew 

Out of their mossy cells forever burst ; 
Nor felt the breeze which from the 

forest told 
Of grassy paths and wood-lawns inter- 

sperst 

With overarching elms and caverns 

cold. 
And violet banks where sweet dreams 

brood, but they 
Pursued their serious folly as of old. 

And as I gazed, methought that in the 

way 
The throng grew wilder, as the woods 

of June 
When the south wind shakes the extin- 

guisht day, 

And a cold glare, intenser than the 

noon. 
But icy cold, obscured with blinding 

light 
The sun, as he the stars. Like the 

young moon — 

When on the sunlit limits of the night 
Her white shell trembles amid crimson 

air. 
And whilst the sleeping tempest 

gathers might 

Doth, as the herald of its coming, bear 
The ghost of its dead mother, whose 

dim form 
Bends in dark ether from her infant's 

chair, — 

So came a chariot on the silent storm 
Of its own rushing splendor, and a 

Shape 
So sat within, as one whom years de- 
form, 

Beneath a dusty hood and double cape, 
Crouching within the shadow of a 

tomb ; 
And o'er what seemed the head a cloud- 
like crape 



'■} 



354 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



Was bent, a dun and faint ethereal 

gloom 
Tempering the light. Upon the chariot 

beam 
A Janus-visaged Shadow did assume 

The guidance of that wonder-winged 

team ; 
The shapes which drew it in thick 

lightnings 
Were lost : — I heard alone on the air's 

soft stream _ 

The music of their ever-moving wings. 
All the four faces of that charioteer 
Had their eyes banded ; little profit 
brings 

Speed in the van and blindness in the 

rear, 
Nor then avail the beams that quench 

the sun 
Or that with banded eyes could pierce 

the sphere 

Of all that is, has been or will be done ; 
So ill was the car guided— but it past 
With solemn speed majestically on. 

The crowd gave way, and I arose 

aghast, 
Or seemed to rise, .so mighty was the 

trance. 
And saw, like clouds upon the thunder 

blast, 

The million with fierce song and maniac 
dance 

Raging around— such seemed the jubi- 
lee 

As when to greet some conqueror's ad- 
vance 

Imperial Rome poured forth her living 

sea 
From senate-house, and forum, and 

theati'e. 
When upon the free 

Had bound a yoke, which soon they 

stoopt to bear. 
Nor wanted here the just similitude 
Of a triumphal pageant, for where'er 

The chariot rolled, a captive multitude 
Was driven ; — all those who had grown 

old in power 
Or misery, — all who had their age sub- 
dued 



By action or by suffering, and whose 

hour 
Was drained to its last sand in weal or 

woe, 
So that the trunk survived both fruit 

and flower ; — 

All those whose fame or infamy must 

grow 
Till the great winter lay the form and 

name 
Of this green earth with them forever , 

low ;— 

All but the sacred- few who could not 
tame 

Their spirits to the conquerors — but as 
soon 

As they had toucht the world with liv- 
ing flame. 

Fled back like eagles to their native ij 

noon. 
Or those who put aside the diadem 
Of earthly thrones or gems . . . 

Were there, of Athens or Jerusalem. ; 
Were neither mid the mighty captives 

seen 
Nor mid the ribald crowd that fpUowedii 

them, ' I 

Nor tho.se who went before fierce andi 

obscene. 
The wild dance maddens in the van,ii 

and those ! 

Who lead it— fleet as shadows on thetj 

green, a 

Outspeed ; the chariot, and without | 

repose 
Mixt with each other in tempestuous] 

measure j 

To savage music, wilder as it grows, ,1 

They, tortured by their agonizing] 
pleasure, 

Convulst and on the rapid whirlwinds 
spun i 

Of that fierce spirit, whose unholy lei- 
sure 

Was soothed by mischief since the 

world begun, 
Throw back their heads and loose their 

streaming hair ; 
And in their dance round her whoP 

dims the sun, i 

Maidens and youths fling their wild! 
arms in air ^ 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



355 



,; their feet twinkle ; they recede, 
and now 

l;ndiug within each other's atmos- 
phere, 

ndle invisibly-and as they glow, 
ke moths by light attracted and re- 
pelled, 
t to their bright destruction come 
and go, 

11 like two clouds into one vale im- 
pelled, , ^, . 

lat shake the mountains when their 
lightnings mingle , , . , 

id die in rain— the fiery band which 
held 

leir natures, snaps— while the shock 

still may tingle ; . ,^ ^, 

le falls and then another in the path 

inseless— nor is the desolation single, 

et ere I can say where— the chariot 

hath ^ T a A 

ist over them— nor other trace I nnd 

It as of foam after the ocean's wrath 

spent upon the desert shore ;— be- 
hind, , . , 
[d men and women foully disarrayed, 
lake their gray hairs in the insulting 
■ wind, 

nd follow in the dance, with limbs 
decayed, , . , , 

jeking to reach the light which leaves 
them still 

arther behind and deeper in the 
shade. 

ut not the less with impotence of will 
hey wheel, though ghastly shadows 

interpose 
ound them and round each other, 

and fulfil 

heir work, and in the dust from 

whence they rose 
ink, and corruption veils them as 

they lie, ^ ^ 

.nd past in these performs what 

in those. 

truck to the heart by this sad pa- 
geantry, , , ^ . 
;alf to myself I said— And what is 
I this ? . . .., o 
Those shape is that withm the car ? 
And why-- 



I would have added— is all here a- 
miss ?— 

But a voice answered— " Life ! "—I 
turned, and knew 

(O Heaven, have mercy on such wretch- 
edness !) 

That what I thought was an old root 
which grew 

To strange distortion out of the hill- 
side, 

Was indeed one of those deluded crew, 

And that the grass, which methought 

hung so wide 
And white, was but his thin discolored 

hair. 
And that the holes he vainly sought to 

hide. 

Were or had been eyes :—" If thou 

canst, forbear 
To join the dance, which I had well 

forborne ! " 
Said the grim Feature (of my thought 

aware). 

" I will unfold that which to this deep 
scorn 

Led me and my companions, and re- 
late . ,, 

The progress of the pageant since the 
morn ; 

" If thirst of knowledge shall not then 

Follow it thou even to the night, but I 
Am weary."— Then like one who with 
the weight 

Of his own words is staggered, wearily 
He paused ; and ere he could resume, 

I cried : 
"First, who art thou ? "—Before thy 

memory, 

"I feared, loved, hated, suffered, did 
and died, 

And if the spark with which Heaven lit 
my spirit 

Had been with purer nutriment sup- 
plied, 

" Corruption would not now thus much 
inherit 

Of what was once Rousseau,— nor this 
disguise . 

Stain that which ought to have dis- 
dained to wear it ; 



356 



THE TRIUMPH OV LIFE. 



"If I have been extinguisht, yet there 

rise 
A thousand beacons from the spark I 

bore " — 
"And who are those chained to the 

car ?"— "The wise, 

"The great, the unforgotten,— they 

who wore 
Mitres and helms and crowns, or 

wreaths of light, 
Signs of thought's empire over thought 
— their lore 

" Taught them not this, to know them- 
selves ; their might 
Could not repress the mystery within. 
And for the morn of truth they feigned, 
deep night 

" Caught them ere evening." — " Who 

is he with chin 
Upon his breast, and hands crost on his 

chain ?'" — 
" The child of a fierce hour ; he sought 

to win 

"The world, and lost all that it did 

contain 
Of greatness, in its hope destroyed ; 

and more 
Of fame and peace than virtue's self 

can gain 

" Without the opportunity which bore 
Him on its eagle pinions to the peak 
From which a thousand climbers have 
before 

"Fallen, as Napoleon fell." I felt my 

cheek 
Alter, to see the shadow pass away. 
Whose grasp had left the giant world so 
. weak. 

That every pygmy kickt it as it lay ; 
And much I grieved to think how 

power and will 
In (Jpposition rule our mortal day. 

And why God made irreconcilable 
Good and the means of good ; and for 

despair 
I half disdained mine eyes' desire to fill 

With the spent vision of the times that 

were 
And scarce have ceast to be. "Dost 

thou behold," 
Said my guide, " those spoilers spoiled, 

Voltaire, 



' ' Frederick, and Paul, Catherine, am 

Leopold, 
And hoary anarchs, demagogues, ant' 

sage- 
Names which the world thinks alway 

old, 

" For in the battle Life and they di« 
wage, 

She remained conqueror. I was over- 
come 

By my own heart alone, which neithei 
age, 

" Nor tears, nor infamy, nor now th< 

tomb 
Could temper to its object." — "Le< 

them pass," 
I cried, " the world and its mysteriou! 

doom 

" Is not so much more glorious than r 

was. 
That I desire to worship those whr 

drew 
New figures on its false and fragile 

glass 

"As the old faded." — "Figures even 

new 
Rise on the bubble, paint them as j'oi' 

may ; 
We havebut thrown, as those before w 

threw, 

" Our shadows on it as it past away. 
But mark how chained to the triumplia 

chair 
The mighty phantoms of an elder day , 

" All that is mortal of great Plate 

there 
Expiates the joy and woe his mastei 

knew not ; 
The star that ruled his doom was fai. 

too fair, 

" And life, where long that flower ol 
Heaven grew not. 

Conquered that heart by love, which; 
gold, or pain, 

Or age, or sloth, or slavery could sub- 
due not. 

" And near him walk the twain. 

The tutor and his pupil, whom Domin- 
ion 
Followed as tame as vulture in a chain. 

" The world was darkened beneath] 
either pinion ' 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



35^ 



Of him whom from the flock of con- 
querors 

pame singled out for her thunder-bear- 
ing minion ; 

"The other long outlived both woes 

and wars, 
jThroned in the thoughts of men, and 

still had kept 
The jealous key of truth's eternal 

doors. 

" If Bacon's eagle spirit had not leapt 
Like lightning out of darkness — he 

compelled 
The Proteus shape of Nature as it slept 

" To wake, and lead him to the caves 

that held 

The treasure of the secrets of its reign. 
See the great bards of elder time, who 

quelled 

" The passions which they sung, as by 

their strain 
May Avell be known : their living 

melody 
Tempers its own contagion to the vein 

' Of those who were infected with it— I 
Have suffered what I wrote, or viler 

pain ! 

And so my words have seeds of mis- 
ery— 

"Even as the deeds of others, not as 

theirs." 

And then he pointed to a company, 
Midst whom I quickly recognized the 

heirs 
Of Caesar's crime, from him to Constan- 

tine ; 
The anarch chiefs, whose force and 

murderous snares 

Had founded many a sceptre-bearing 
line. 

And spread the plague of gold and 
blood abroad : 

And Gregory and John, and men di- 
vine. 

Who rose like shadows between man 

and Clod ; 
Till that eclipse, still hanging over 

heaven, 
Was worshipt by the world o'er which 

they strode, 

iFor the true sun it quencht— "Their 
power was given 



But to destroy," replied the leader :— 

Am one of those who have created, 
even 

" If it be but a world of agony." — 

" Whence camest thou ? and whither 

goest thou ? 
How did thy course begin ? " I sftid, 

' ' and why ? 

" Mine eyes are sick of this perpetual 

flow 
Of people, and my heart sick of one sad 

thought — 
Speak ! "— " Whence I am, I partly 

seem to know, 

" And how and by what paths I have 
been brought 

To this dread pass, methinks even thou 
mayst guess ;— 

Why this should be, my mind can com- 
pass not ; 

"Whither the conqueror hurries me 

still less ; — 
But follow thou, and from spectator 

turn 
Actor or victim in this wretchedness, 

"And what thou wouldst be taught I 

then may learn 
From thee. Now listen :— In the April 

prime. 
When all the forest tips began to burn 

" With kindling green, toucht by the 

azure clime 
Of the young season, I was laid asleep 
Under a mountain, which from un- 
known time 

" Had yawned into a cavern, high and 

deep ; 
And from it came a gentle rivulet, 
Whose water, like clear air, in its calm 

sweep 

" Bent the soft grass, and kept forever 

wet 
The stems of the sweet flowers, and 

filled the grove 
With sounds, which whoso hears must 

needs forget 

" All pleasure and all pain, all hate and 

love. 
Which they had known before that 

hour of rest ; 
A sleeping mother then would dream 

not of 



358 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



" Her only child who died upon the 

breast 
At eventide— a king would mourn no 

more 
The crown of which his brows were 

dispossest 

" When the sun lingered o'er his ocean 
floor, 

To gild his rival's new prosperity. 

Thou wouldst forget thus vainly to de- 
plore 

"Ills, which if ills can find no cure 

from thee. 
The thought of which no other sleep 

will quell, 
Nor other music blot from memory, 

" So sweet and deep is the oblivious 

spell ; 
And whether life had been before that 

sleep 
The heaven which I imagine, or a hell 

"Like this harsh world in which I 

wake to weep, 
I know not. I arose, and for a space 
The scene of woods and waters seemed 

to keep, 

" Tho' it was now broad day, a gentle 

trace 
Of light diviner than the common sun 
Sheds on the common earth, and all the 

place 

"Was filled with magic sounds woven 

into one 
Oblivious melody, confusing sense 
Amid the gliding waves and shadows 

dun ; 

" And, as I lookt, the bright omnipres- 
ence 

Of morning thro' the orient cavern 
flowed. 

And the sun's image radiantly intense 

" Burned on the waters of the well 

that glowed 
Like gold, and threaded all the forest's 

maze 
With winding paths of emerald fire ; 

there stood 

" Amid the sun, as he amid the blaze 
Of his own glory, on the vibrating 
Floor of the fountain, paved with flash- 
ing rays, 



" A Shape all light, which with one 

hand did fling 
Dew on the earth, as if she were the 

dawn. 
And the invisible rain did ever sing. 

" A silver music on the mossy lawn ; 
And still before me on the dusky grass,! 
Iris her many-colored scarf had drawn , 

" In her right hand she bore a crystal 
glass, : 

Mantling with bright Nepenthe ; thetj 
fierce splendor 

Fell from her as she moved under the - 
mass 

" Of the deep cavern, and with palms.' 

so tender, 
Their tread broke not the mirror of its -' 

billow, 
Glided along the river, and did bend 1 

her 

" Head under the dark boughs, till like - 

a willow. 
Her fair hair swept the bosom of the ' 

stream 
That whispered with delight to be its ^ 

pillow. 

" As one enamoured is upborne in v 

dream 
O'er lilj'-paven lakes mid silver mist. 
To wondrous music, so this shape might tl 

seem 

" Partly to tread the waves with feettj 

which kist 
The dancing foam ; partly to glide 

along 
The air which roughened the moist 
amethyst, 

" Or the faint morning beams that fell 

among 
The trees, or the soft shadows of the 

trees ; 
And her feet, ever to the ceaseless song 

' ' Of leaves, and winds, and waves, and i 

birds, and bees, 
And falling drops, moved in a measure 

new 
Yet sweet, as on the summer evening 

breeze, 

" Up from the lake a shape of golden 

dew 
Between two rocks, athwart the rising 

moon. 
Dances i' the wind, where never eagle 

flew; 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



' And still her feet, no less than the 

sweet tune 
.■"o which they moved, seemed as they 

moved to blot 
["he thoughts of him who gazed on 

them ; and soon 

All that was, seemed as if it had been 
not ; 

V.nd all the gazer's mind was strewn be- 
neath 

ler feet like embers ; and she, thought 
by thought, 

' Trampled its sparks into the dust of 

death ; 

^s day upon the threshold of the east 
.Yeads out the lamps of night, until 

the breath 

Of darkness re-illumine even the least 
)f heaven's living eyes— like day she 

came, 
taking the night a dream ; and ere she 

ceast 

' To move, as one between desire and 

shame 

Suspended, I said— If, as it doth seem, 
Chou comest from the realm without a 

name, 

Into this valley of perpetual dream, 
>how whence I came, and where I am, 

and why— 
'ass not away upon the passing stream. 

' Arise and quench thy thirst, was her 

reply, 
^nd as a shut lily stricken by the wand 
3f dewy morning's vital alchemy, 

' I rose ; and, bending at her sweet 

command, 
Poucht with faint lips the cup she 

raised, 
^nd suddenly my brain became as sand 

' Where the first wave had more than 

half erased 
The track of deer on desert Labrador ; 
IVhilst the wolf, from which they fled 

amazed, 

' Leaves his stamp visibly upon the 

shore, 
Until the second bursts ;— so on my 

sight 
Burst a new vision, never seen before, 



" And the fair shape waned in the com 

ing light, 
As veil by veil the silent splendor drops 
From Lucifer, amid the chrysolite 

" Of sunrise, ere it tinge the mountain 

tops ; 
And as the presence of that fairest 

planet, 
Altho' unseen, is felt by one who hopes 

" That his day's path may end as he be- 
gan it, 

In thai star's smile, whose light is like 
the scent 

Of a jonquil when evening breezes fan 
it, 

"Or the soft note in which his dear 
lament 

The Brescian shepherd breathes, or the 
caress 

That turned his weary slumber to con- 
tent ; 

" So knew I in that light's severe excess 
The presence of that shape which on 

the stream 
Moved, as I moved along the wilderness 

"More dimly than a day- appearing 

dream. 
The ghost of a forgotten form of sleep ; 
A light of heaven, whose half-extin- 

guisht beam 

"Thro' the sick day, in which we wake 

to weep. 
Glimmers, forever sought, forever lost; 
So did that shape its obscure tenor 

keep 

" Beside my path, as silent as a ghost ; 
But the new Vision, and the cold bright 

car. 
With solemn speed and stunning music, 

crost 

" The forest, and as if from some dread 
war 

Triumphantly returning, the loud mil- 
lion 

Fiercely extolled the fortune of her 
star. 

" A moving arch of victory, the ver- 
milion 

And green and azure plumes of Iris 
had 

Built high over her wind-winged pa- 
vilion, 



3G0 



THE TEIUAirH OF LIFE. 



" And underneath ethereal glory clad 
The wilderness, and far before her flew 
The tempest of the splendor, which for- 
bade 

" Shadow to fall from leaf and stone ; 

the crew 
Seemed in that light, like atomies to 

dance 
Within a sunbeam ;— some upon the 

new 

" Embroidery of flowers, that did en- 
hance 

The grassy vesture of the desert, 
played. 

Forgetful of the chariot's swift ad- 
vance ; 

" Others stood gazing, till within the 

shade 
Of the great mountain its light left 

them dim ; 
Others outspeeded it ; and others made 

" Circles around it, like the clouds that 

swim 
Round the high moon in a bright sea of 

air ; 
And more did follow, with exulting 

hymn, 

" The chariot and the captives fettered 

there :— 
But all like bubbles on an eddying flood 
Fell into the same track at last, and 

were 

" Borne onward. I among the multi- 
tude 

Was swept — me, sweetest flowers de- 
layed not long ; 

Me, not the shadow nor the solitude ; 

" Me, not that falling stream's Lethean 

song ; 
Me, not the phantom of that early form. 
Which moved upon its motion — but 

among 

" The thickest billows of that living 

storm 
I plunged, and bared my bosom to the 

clime 
Of that cold light, whose airs too soon 

deform. 

" Before the chariot had begun to climb 
The opposing steep of that mysterious 

dell. 
Behold a wonder worthy of the rhyme 



" Of him who from the lowest depth; 

of hell, 
Thro' every paradise and through al 

glory. 
Love led serene, and who returned tf 

tell 

" The words of hate and awe ; the wsml 

drous story 
How all things are transfigured excepi 

Love J 
For deaf as is a sea, which wrath makei* 

hoary, 

"The world can hear not the swee* 

notes that move 
The sphere whose light is melody U, 

lovers — 
A wonder worthy of his rhyme. Thfl 

grove 

" Grew dense with shadows to its ini 

most covers, 
The earth was gray with phantorasi 

and the air 
Was peopled with dim forms, as whet; 

there hovers 

"A flock of vampire-bats before tho 

glare 
Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evei 

ning. 
Strange night upon some Indian isle ;-i 

thus were 

"Phantoms diffused around ; and somd 

did fling 
Shadows of shadows, yet unlike therai 

selves, 
Behind them ; some like eaglets on th<| 

wing 

" Were lost in the white day ; otheni 

like elves 
Danced in a thousand unimagine(, 

shapes 
Upon the sunny streams and grass:, 

shelves ; 

" And others sat« chattering like rest, 

less apes j 

On vulgar hands, ... * 

Some made a cradle of the ermine<[ 

capes ; 

"Of kingly mantles; some across th<j| 
tiar I 

Of pontiffs sate like vultures; other i 
played r 

Under the ci'own which girt with em| 
pire 



STANZA, WRITTEN AT BRACKNELL 



361 



A baby's or an idiot's brow, and made 
tieir nests in it. Tlie old anatomies 
ite hatching their bare broods under 
the shade 

Of demon wings, and laught from 
their dead eyes 

reassume the delegated power, 
rrayed in which those worms did mon- 

archize, 

Who made this earth their charnel. 

Others more 
umble, like falcons, sate upon the fist 
f common men, and round their heads 

did soar ; 

Or like small gnats and flies, as thick 
as mist 

a evening marshes, thronged about 
the brow 

f lawyers, statesmen, priest and theo- 
rist ;— 

A.nd others, like discolored flakes of 
snow 

1 fairest bosoms and the sunniest 
hair, 

ill, and were melted by the youthful 
glow 

Which they extlnguisht ; and, like 

tears, they were 
veil to those from whose faint lids 

they rained 
drops of sorrow. I became aware 

Df wlience those forms proceeded 

which thus stained 
le track in which we moved. After 

brief space, 
om every form the beauty slowly 

waned ; 

Prom every firmest limb and fairest 

face 
e strength and freshness fell like 

dust, and left 
e action and the shape without the 

grace 

)f life. The marble brow of youth 

was cleft 
ith care ; and in those eyes where 

once hope shone, 
sire, like a lioness bereft 

)f her last cub, glared ere it died ; 

, each one 

that great crowd gent forth inces- 
santly 

ese shadows, numerous as the dead 
leaves blown 



" In autumn evening from a poplar- 
tree. 

Each like himself and like each other 
were 

At first ; but some distorted seemed to 
be 

"Obscure clouds, moulded by the 

casual air ; 
And of this stuff the car's creative ray 
Wrought all the busy phantoms that 

were there, 

" As the sun shapes the clouds ; thus 
on the way 

Mask after mask fell from the counte- 
nance 

And form of all ; and long before the 
day 

"Was old, the joy which waked like 

heaven's glance 
The sleepers in the oblivious valley, 

died ; 
And some grew weary of the ghastly 

dance, 

" And fell, as I have fallen, by the way- 
side ;— 

Those soonest from whose forms most 
shadows past, 

And least of strength and beauty did 
abide. 

" Then, what is life ? I cried. " 



CANCELLED OPENING OF 
" THE TRIUMPH OP LIFE." 

Out of the eastern shadow of the 

Earth, 
Amid the clouds upon its margin 

gray 
Scattered by Night to swathe in its 

bright birth 

In gold and fleecy snow the infant 

Day, 
The glorious Sun uprose : beneath his 

light. 
The earth and all . . . 



EARLY POEMS. 

STANZA, WRITTEN AT 
BRACKNELL. . 

Thy dewy looks sink in my breast ; 

Thy gentle words stir poison there 
Thou hast disturbed the only rest 

That was the portion of despair I 



362 



STAKZAR. — APTJIL, 1814. 



Subdued to Duty's hard control, 
I could have borne my wayward lot : 

The chains that bind this ruined soul 
Had cankered then— but crusht it 
not. 

STANZAS— April, 1814. 

Away ! the moor is dark beneath the 
moon. 
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale 
beam of even : 
Away ! the gathering winds will call 
the darkness soon, 
And profoundest midnight shroud 
the serene lights of heaven. 

Pause not ! The time is past ! Every 
voice cries. Away ! 
Tempt not with one last tear thy 
friend's ungentle mood : 
Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, 
dares not entreat thy stay : 
Duty and dereliction guide thee back 
to solitude. 

Away, away ! to thy sad and silent 
* home ; 
Pour bitter tears on its desolated 
hearth ; 
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts 
they go and come, 
And complicate strange webs of mel- 
ancholy mirth. 

The leaves of wasted autumn woods 
shall float around thine head : 
The blooms of dewy spring shall 
gleam beneath thy feet : 
But thy soul or this world must fade in 
the frost that binds the dead. 
Ere midnight's frown and morning's 
smile, ere thou and peace may 
meet. 

The cloud— shadows of midnight pos- 
sess their own repose. 
For the weary winds are silent, or the 
moon is in the deep : 
Some respite to its turbulence unrest- 
ing ocean knows ; 
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, 
hath its appointed sleep. 

Thou in the grave shalt rest— yet till 
the phantoms flee 
Which that house and heath and gar- 
den made dear to thee erewhile, 
Thy remembrance, and repentance, 
and deep musings are not free 
From the music of two voices and the 
light of one sweet smile. 



TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT 
GODWIN. 

I. 

Mine eyes were dim with tears m^ 
shed ; 
Yes, I was firm— thus wert nt 
thou ;— 
My baffled looks did fear yet dread 

To meet thyjooks— I could not kno'^ 
How anxiously they sought to shine 
With soothing pity upon mine. 

II. 

To sit and curb the soul's mute rage 
Which prays upon itself alone ; 

To curse the life which is the cage 
Of lettered grief that dares n( 
groan. 

Hiding from many a careless eye 

The scorned load of agony. 

III. 

Whilst thou alone, then not regardei 
The thou alone should bfe 

To spend years thus, and be rewardei! 
As thou, sweet love, requited me : 
When none were near— Oh ! I d'j 
wake 

From tOBture for that moment's sake] 



Upon my heart thy accents sweet 

Of peace and pity fell like dew 

On flowers half dead ;— thy lips 

meet 

Mine tremblingly ; thy dark 

threw 

Their soft persuasion on my brain. 

Charming away its dream of pain. 



We are not happy, sweet ! our state' 
Is strange and full of doubt ai 
fear ; 

More' need of words that ills abate , ^ 
Reserve or censure come not near i! 

Our sacred friendship, lest there be 

No solace left for thee and me. 



Gentle and good and mild thou art, 
Nor can I live if thou appear . 

Aught but thyself, or turn thine hea ' 
Away from me, or stoop to wear • 

The mask of scorn, altho' it be 

To hide the love thou feel'st for me. 



ON DEATH. 



363 



TO 

ET look on me— take not thine eyes 
away, 

Which feed upon the love within 
mine own, 

hich is indeed but the reflected ray 

Of thine own beauty from my spirit 
thrown. 

Yet speak to me— thy voice is as tlie 
tone 
my heart's echo, and I think I hear 

That thou yet lovest me ; yet thou 
alone 

ke one before a mirror, without care 

' aught but thine own features, im- 
aged there ; 

id yet I wear out life in watching 
thee ; 

A. toil so sweet at times, and thou in- 
deed 

t kind when I am sick, and pity me. 



MUTABILITY. 

E ara as clouds that veil the mid- 
night moon ; 

low restlessly they speed, and gleam, 
and quiver, 

reaking the darkness radiantly !— 
yet soon 

S'ight closes round, and they are lost 
forever ; 

like forgotten lyres, whose disso- 
nant strings 

rive various response to each varying 
blast, 

whose frail frame no second motion 
brings 

)ne mood or modulation like the 
last. 

3 rest. A dream has power to poi- 
son sleep ; 

Ve rise. One wandering thought 
pollutes the day ; 

i feel, conceive or reason, laugh or 
weep ; 

Embrace fond woe or cast our cares 
away : 

s the same ! For, be it joy or sor- 
row, 

'he path of its departure still is free : 

n's yesterday may ne'er be like his 
morrow ; 

faught may endure but Mutability. 



ON DEATH. 

There is no work, nor device, nor knowl- 
edge, NOR wisdom, in the GRAVE, WHITHER 

THOU GOEST. Ecclesiastes. 

The pale, the cold, and the moony smile 
Which the meteor beam of a starless 
night 
Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle, 
Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted 
light. 
Is the flame of life so fickle and wan 
That flits round our steps till their 
strength is gone. 

O man ! hold thee on in courage of soul 
Thro' the stormy shades of thy 
worldly way. 
And the billows of cloud that around 
thee roll 
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous 
day. 
Where hell and heaven shall leave thee 

free 
To the universe of destiny. 

This world is the nurse of all we know. 
This world is the mother of all we 
feel. 
And the coming of death is a fearful 
blow 
To a brain unencompast with nerves 
of steel ; 
When all that we know, or feel, or see, 
Shall pass like an unreal mystery. 

The secret things of the grave are 

there, 
Where all but this frame must surely 

be, 
Tho' the flne-wrought eye and the 

wondrous ear 
No longer will live to hear or to see 
All that is great and all that is strange 
In the boundless realm of unending 

change. 



Who telleth a tale of unspeaking 
death ? 
Who lifteth the veil of what is to 
come ? 

Who painteth the shadows that are be- 
neath 
The wide-winding caves of the 
peopled tomb ? 

Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be 

With the fears and the love for that 
which we see ? 



364 



A SUMMER EVENING CHURCHYARD. 



A SUMMER EVENING CHURCH- 
YARD. 

Lechlade, Gloucestershire. 

The wind has swept from the wide at- 
mosphere 

Each vapor that obscured the sunset s 
ray ; 

And pallid Evening twines its beammg 
hair 

In duskier braids around the languid 
eyes of Day : ^ , , f 

Silence and Twilight, unbeloved of 
men, ^ . 

Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest 
glen. 

They breathe their spells towards the 
departing day, 

Encompassing the earth, air, stars, and 
sea ; 

Light, sound, and motion own the 
potent sway. 

Responding to the charm with its own 
mystery. . , , , 

The winds are still, or the dry church- 
tower grass 

Knows not their gentle motions as they 
pass. 

Thou too, aerial Pile ! whose pinnacles 
Point from one shrine like pyramids of 

Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn 

spells. 
Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim 

and distant spire, 
Around whose lessening and invisible 

height 
Gather among the stars the clouds of 

night. 

The dead are sleeping in their sepul- 
chres : 

And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrill- 
ing sound 

Half sense, half thought, among the 
darkness stirs. 

Breathed from their wormy beds all 
living things around. 

And mingling with the still night and 
mute sky 

Its awful hush is felt inaudibly. 

Thus solemnized and softened, death 

is mild 
And terrorless as this serenest night : 
Here could I hope, like some inquiring 

child 



Sporting on graves, that death die 
hide from human sight 

Sweet secrets, or beside its breathles' 
sleep 

That loveliest dreams perpetual watcl 
did keep. 



TO COLERIDGE. 

A.\KPY2I AIOI2n nOTMON 'AHOTMON. 

Oh ! there are spirits of the air. 

And genii of the evening breeze, 
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair , 
As star-beams among twiligh 
trees : — 
Such lovely ministers to meet 
Oft hast thou turned from men thi 
lonely feet. 

■With mountain winds, and babblin 

springs. 
And moonlight seas, that are thi 

voice 
Of these inexplicable things 
Thou didst hold commune, and ro 

joice 

When they did answer thee ; but the 
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy loV 

away. 

And thou hast sought in starry eyes 
Beams that were never meant f(|, 
thine, 
Another's wealth :— tame sacrifice 

To a fond faith ! still dost thou pine', 
Still dost thou hope that greetir 

hands, 
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer tl: 
demands ? 

Ah 5 wherefore didst thou build thir 
hope 
On the false earth's inconstancy ? 
Did thine own mind afford no scope ' 

Of love, or moving thoughts to the( 
That natural scenes or human smiles ' 
Could steal the power to wind thee 
their wiles. 



Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled 
Whose falsehood left thee broke'j^ 
hearted ; 
The glory of the moon is dead ; 
Night's ghosts and dreams have no 
departed ; 
Thine own soul still is true to thee. 
But changed to a foul fiend thi|p 
misery. 



LINES. 



305 



This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever 

Beside thee like thy shadow hangs, 
Dream not to chase ; — the mad en- 
deavor 
Would scourge thee to severer pangs. 
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate, 
Dark as it is, all change would aggra- 
vate. 



TO WORDSWORTH. 

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to 
know 

That things depart which never may 
return : 

Childhood and youth, friendship and 
love's first glow, 

Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving 
thee to mourn. 

These common woes I feel. One loss 
is mine 

Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone de- 
plore. 

Thou wert as a lone star, whose light 
did shine 

On some frail bark in winter's mid- 
night roar : 

Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge 
stood 

Above the blind and battling multi- 
tude : 

[n honored poverty thy voice did 
weave 

Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,— 

Deserting these, thou leavest me to 
grieve, 

Thus having been, that thou shouldst 
cease to be. 



FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN 
DN THE FALL OF BONAPARTE. 

HATED thee, fallen tyrant ! I did 

groan 
To think that a most unambitious 

slave, 
liike thou, shouldst dance and revel on 

the grave 
)f Liberty. Thou mightst have built 

thy throne 
vVhere it had stood even now : thou 

didst prefer 
L frail and bloody pomp which time 

has swept 
n fragments towards oblivion. Mas- 
sacre, 
i'or this I prayed, would on thy sleep 

have crept, 



Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, 

and Lust, 
And stifled thee, their minister. I 

know 
Too late, since thou and France are in 

the dust, 
That virtue owns a more eternal foe 
Than force or fraud : old Custom, legal 

Crime, 
And bloody Faith the foulest birth of 

time. 



LINES. 



The cold earth slept below, 
Above the cold sky shone ; 
And all around, with a chilling sound. 
From caves of ice and fields of snow, 
The breath of night like death did 
flow 
Beneath the sinking moon. 



The wintery hedge was black. 
The green grass was not seen, 
The birds did rest on the bare thorn's 
breast. 
Whose roots, beside the pathway 

track. 
Had bound their folds o'er many a 
crack. 
Which the frost had made between. 



Thine eyes glowed in the glare 
Of the moon's dying light ; 
As a fen-fire's beam on a sluggish 
stream, 
Gleams dimly, so the moon shone 
there. 
And it yellowed the strings of thy 
raven hair, 
That shook in the wind of night. 



The moon made thy lips pale, be- 
loved— 
The wind made thy bosom chill — 
The night did shed on thy dear head 
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie 
With the bitter breath of the naked 
sky 
Might visit thee at will. 



3GG 



POEMS WKiTTEN IN 1810 :— THE SUNSET. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1816. 
THE SUNSET. 

There late was One within whose 
subtle being, . 

As light and wind within some delicate 
cloud 

That fades amid the blue moon's burn- 
ing sky, 

Genius and death contended. None 
may know 

The sweetness of the joy which made 
his breath 

Fail, like the trances of the summer 
air, 

When, with the Lady of his love, who 
then „ . , J 

First knew the unreserve of mingled 

being* ^ ^ ,. 

He walked along the pathway of a held 

Which to the east a hoar wood shad- 
owed o'er. 

But to the west was open to the sky. 

There now the sun had sunk, but lines 
of gold 

Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the 
points 

Of the far level grass and nodding 
flowers 

And the old dandelion's hoary beard, 

And, mingled with the shades of twi- 
light, lay , . 

On the brown massy woods ;— and in 
the east 

The broad and burning moon linger- 
ingly rose 

Between the black trunks of the 
crowded trees. 

While the faint stars were gathering 
overhead. — 

«' Is it not strange, Isabel," said the 

youth, 
'■ I never saw the sun ? We will walk 
here . 

To-morrow ; thou shalt look on it with 
me." 

That night the youth and lady min- 
gled lay 

In love and sleep— but when the morn- 
ing came 

The lady found her lover dead and 
cold. 

Let none believe that God m mercy 
gave 

That stroke. The lady died not, nor 
grew wild, 

But year by year lived on— in truth I 
think 

Her gentleness and patience and sad 
smiles, 



And that she did not die, but lived to 

tend 
Her aged father, were a kind of mad- 
ness, 
If madness 't is to be unlike the world.! 
For but to see her were to read the talc 
Woven by some subtlest bard, to make 

hard hearts 
Dissolve away in wisdom-working 

grief ;— 
Her eyes were black and lustreless and 

wan : 
Her eyelashes were worn away with 

tears. 
Her lips and cheeks were like things 

dead — so pale ; 
Her hands were thin, and thro' their 

wandering veins 
And weak articulations might be seer 
Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thj 

dead self 
Which one ve.xt ghost inhabits, night 

and day. 
Is all, lost child, that now remains ot 

thee ! 

"Inheritor of more than earth car, 

Passionless calm and silence unrei 

proved, 
Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep 

but rest. 
And are the uncomplaining things; 

they seem. 
Or live, or drop in the deep sea o: 

Love ; 
Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were 

— Peace ! " 
This was the only moan she ever made< 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL 
BEAUTY. 

I. 

The awful shadow of some unseei 
Power 
Floats tho' unseen amongst us,- 

visiting 
This various world with as incon 
stant wing 
As summer winds that creep fron 

flower to flower,— 
Like moonbeams that behind som' 
piny mountain shower. 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and counts 
ance ; 
I Like hues and harmonies of evening,- 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 



3G7 



Like clouds in starliglit widely 

spread,— 
Like memory of music fled, — 
Like aught that for its grace may 
be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 



Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 
With thine own hues all thou dost 

shine upon 
Of human thought or form,— where 
art thou gone ? 
Why dost thou pass away and leave 

our state, 
rhis dim vast vale of tears, vacant and 
desolate ? 
Ask why the sunlight not forever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon moun- 
tain river, 
tVhy aught should fail and fade that 
once is shown, 
Why fear and dream and death 

and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom,— why man has such a 
scope 
^"'or love and hate, despondency and 
hope ? 

III. 

•^o voice from some sublimer world 
hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses 

given — 
Therefore the names of Demon, 
Ghost, and Heaven, 
.Remain the records of their vain en- 
deavor, 
^'rail spells — whose uttered charm 
might not avail to sever. 
From all we hear and all we see, 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
rhy light alone— like mist o'er moun- 
tains driven, 
Or music by the night wind sent, 
Thro' strings of some still instru- 
ment, 
Ov moonlight on a midnight 
stream, 
lives grace and truth to life's unquiet 
dream. 

IV. 

liove, Hope, and Self-esteem, like 
clouds depart 
And come, for some uncertain mo- 
ments lent, 



Man were immortal, and omnipotent, 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as 

thou art, 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state 
within his heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies, 
That wax and wane in lover's 
eyes— 
Thou—that to human thought art 
nourishment, 
Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
Depart not as thy shadow came. 
Depart not— lest the grave should 
be. 
Like life and fear, a dark reality. 



While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and 
sped 
Thro' many a listening chamber, 

cave and ruin. 
And starlight wood, with fearful 
steps pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed 

dead. 
I called on poisonous names with which 
our youth is fed ; 
I was not heard — I saw them not — 
When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at the sweet time when winds 
are wooing 
All vital things that wake to bring 
News of birds and blossoming, — 
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me ; 
I shriekt, and claspt my hands in 
ecstasy ! 



VI. 

I vowed that I would dedicate my pow- 
ers 
To thee and thine— have I not kept 

the vow ? 
With beating heart and streaming 
eyes, even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave : they 
have in visioned bowers 
Of studious zeal or love's delight 
Outwatcht with me the envious 
night— 
They know that never joy illumed my 
brow 
Unlinkt with hope that thou 

wouldst free 
This world from its dark slaveiy. 
That thou, — O awful Lovelinkss, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words 
cannot express. 



368 



MONT BLANC. 



The day becomes more solemn and se- 
rene 
When noon is past- -there is a har- 
mony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 
Which thro' the summer is not heard 

or seen, 
As if it could not be, as if it had not 
been 1 
Thus let thy power, which like the 

truth 
Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to my onward life supply 
Its calm— to one who worships 

thee, 
And every form containing thee, 
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did 
bind 
To fear himself, and love all human- 
kind. 

MONT BLANC. 

LINKS WUITTEX IX THE VALE OF 

CHAMOUNI. 



The everlasting universe of things 
Flows thro' the mind, and rolls its rapid 

waves, 
Now dark— now glittering— now re- 
flecting gloom- 
Now lending splendor, where from 

secret springs 
The source of human thought its trib- 
ute brings 
Of waters,— with a sound but half its 

own, 
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume 
In the wild woods, among the moun- 
tains lone. 
Where waterfalls around it leap for- 
ever, 
Where woods and winds contend, and 

a vast river 
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and 
raves. 



Thus thou. Ravine of Arve— dark, deep 

Ravine — 
Thou many-colored, many-voiced vale, 
Over whose pines, and crags, and 

caverns sail 
Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams : 

awful scene. 
Where Power in likeness of the Arve 

comes down 
From the ice gulfs that gird his secret 

throne. 



Bursting thro' these dark mountain 

like the flame 
Of lightning thro' the tempest ;— tho 

dost lie, 
Thy giant brood of pines around thai j 

clinging, "^ 

Children of elder time, in whose devci 

tion j 

The chainless winds still come and eve^ 

came i 

To drink their odors, and their might! 

swinging 
To hear— an old and solemn harmony. 
Thine earthly rainbows stretcht acxoi 

the sweep 
Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil 
Robes some unsculptured image ; th! 

strange sleep 
Which when the voices of the deser 

fail 
Wraps all in its own deep eternity ;— 
Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's con 

motion, 
A loud, lone sound no other sound ca 

tame ; 
Thou art pervaded with that ceaselee 

motion, 
Thou art the path of that unrestin 

sound- 
Dizzy Ravine ! and when I gaze on the 
I seem as in a trance sublime an 

strange 
To muse on my own separate fantasy 
My own, my liuman mind, which pa: 

sively 
Now renders and receives fast mfluer 

cings, . . . ^ 

Holding an unremittmg interchange 
With the clear universe of thing 

around ; 
One legion of wild thoughts, whos 

wandering wings 
Now float above thy darkness, and noi; 

rest 
Where that or thou art no unbidde 

guest. 
In the still cave of the witch Poesy, , 
Seeking among the shadows that pa,'| 

by 

Ghosts of all things that are, somi 

shade of thee, 
Some phantom, some faint image ; ti 

the breast 
From which they fled recalls them, tho 

art there ! 



III. 

Some say that gleams of a remote 

world 
Visit the soul in sleep,— that death : 

slumber. 



MONT BLANC. 



369 



lDcI that its shapes the busy thoughts 
outnumber 

if those who wake and live.— I look on 
high ; 

[as some unknown omnipotence un- 
furled 

he veil of life or death ? or do I lie 

1 dream, and does the mightier world 
of sleep 

pread far around and inaccessibly 

■,s circles ? For the very spirit fails, 

riven like a homeless cloud from steep 
to steep 

hat vanishes among the viewless 
gales ! 

ar, far above, piercing the infinite 
sky, 

ont Blanc appears, — still, snowy, and 
serene— 

s subject mountains their unearthly 
forms 

lie around it, ice and rock ; broad 
vales between 

t frozen floods, unfathomable deeps, 

lue as the overhanging heaven, that 
spread 

nd wind among the accumulated 

I steeps ; 

desert peopled by the storms alone, 

ive when the eagle brings some hunt- 
er's bone, 

nd the wolf tracks her there — how 
hideously 

s shapes aVe heapt around ! rude, 
bare, and high, 

lastly, and scarred, and riven.— Is 
this the scene 

here the old Earthquake-daemon 
taught her young 

lin ? Were these their toys ? or did 

a sea 
fire, envelop once this silent snow ? 

me can reply — all seems eternal now. 

le wilderness has a mysterious tongue 

hich teaches awful doubt, or faith so 

mild, 
solemn, so serene, that man may be 

it for such faith with Nature recon- 
ciled ; 

lou hast a voice, gi'eat Mountain, to 
repeal 

irge codes of fraud and woe ; not un- 
derstood 

'■ all, but which the wise, and great, 
and good 

terpret, or make felt, or deeply feel. 



le fields, the lakes, the forests, and 

the streams, 
;ean, and all the living things that 

dwell 

23 



Within the daedal earth ; lightiungand 
rain. 

Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurri- 
cane, 

The torpor of the year when feeble 
di-eams 

Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless 
sleep 

Holds every future leaf and fiovver ;— 
the bound 

With which from that detested trance 
they leap ; 

The works and ways of man, their death 
and birth. 

And that of him and all that his may 
be; ^ 

All things that move and breathe with 
toil and sound 

Are born and die ; revolve, subside, and 
swell. 

Power dwells apart in its tranquillity 

Remote, serene, and inaccessible : 
And this, the naked countenance of 
earth, 

On which I gaze, even these primeval 
mountains 

Teach the adverting mind. The gla- 
ciers creep 

Like snakes that watch their prey, from 
their far fountains. 

Slow rolling on ; there, many a preci- 
pice. 

Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal 
power 

Have piled : dome, pyramid, and pin- 
nacle, 

A city of death, distinct with many a 
tower 

And wall impregnable of beaming ice. 

Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin 

Is there, that from the boundaries of 
the sky 

Rolls its perpetual stream ; vast pines 
are strewing 

Its destined path, or in the mangled 
soil 

Branchless and shattered stand ; the 
rocks, drawn down 

From yon remotest waste, have over- 
thrown 

The limits of the dead and living world. 

Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling- 
place 

Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes 
its spoil ; 

Their food and their retreat for ever 
gone, 

So much of life and joy is lost. The 
race 

Of man, flies far in dread ; his work 
and dwelling 



S70 



CANCELLED PASSAGE OF MONT BLANC. 



Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's 

stream, 
Aud their place is not known. Below, 

vast caves 
8hine in the rushing torrents' restless 

gleam. 
Which from those secret chasms a tu- 
mult welling 
Meet in the vale, and one majestic 

River, 
The breath and blood of distant lands, 

forever 
Rolls its loud waters to the ocean 

waves, 
Breathes its swift vapors to the circling 

air. 



Mount Blanc yet gleams on high :— the 
power is there, 

The still and solemn power of many 
sights, 

And many sounds, and much of life and 
death. 

In the calm darkness of the moonless 
nights. 

In the lone glare of day, the snows de- 
scend 

Upon that Mountain ; none beholds 
them there. 

Nor when the flakes burn in the sink- 
ing sun, 

Or the .star-beams dart thro' them :— 
Winds contend 

Silently there, and heap the snow with 
breath 

Rapid and strong, but silently ! Its 
home 

The voiceless lightning in these soli- 
tudes 

Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods 

Over the snow. The secret strength 
of things 

Which governs thought, and to the in- 
finite dome 

Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! 

And what were thou, and earth, and 
stars, and sea, 

If to the human mind's imaginings 

Silence and .solitude were vacancy ? 
July 23, 1816. 

CANCELLED PASSAGE OF MONT 
BLANC. 

There is a voice, not understood by 

all. 
Sent from these desert-caves. It is 

the I'oar 
Of the rent ice-cliff which the sunbeams 

call, 



Plunging into the vale— it is the blast ; 
Descending on the pines — the torrents' 
pour. . . . 

FRAGMENT : HOME. 

Dear home, thou scene of earliest' 

hopes and joys. 
The least of which wronged Memorji 

ever makes 
Bitterer than all thine unrememberec 

tears. 

FRAGMENT : HELEN AND 
HENRY. 

A SHOVEL of his ashes took 
From the hearth's obscurest nook, 
Muttering mysteries as she went. 
Helen and Henry knew that Granny 
Was as much afraid of ghosts as any, i 

And so they followed hard— 
But Helen cliing to her brother's arm,i 
And her own spasm made her shake. 

NOTE ON POEMS OF ISIO, BY 
MRS SHELLEY. 

Shelley wrote little during thi 
year. The poem entitled " The Sum 
set " was written in the Spring of th 
year, while still residing at Bishopgatei 
He spent the summer on the shores O' 
the Lake oi Geneva. " The Hymn tn 
Intellectual Beauty " was conceivei 
during his voyage round the lake witl 
Lord Byron. He occupied himself dur, 
ing this voyage reading the " Nouvell 
Heloise " for the first time. The read 
ing it on the very spot where the .scene 
are laid added to the interest ; and h' 
was at once surprised and charmed b; 
the passionate eloquence and earnes 
enthralling interest that pervade thi 
work. There was something in th 
character of Saint-Preux, in his abnc 
gation of self, and in the worship h 
paid to Love, that coincided with Slie 
ley's own disposition ; and, though dii 
fering in many of the views an 
shocked by others, yet the effect of th 
whole was fascinating and delightful | 

POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817. 
MARIANNE'S DREAM. 



A PALE dream came to a Lady fair, 

And said, " A boon, a boon, I pray 
I know the secrets of the air, 



MARIANNE S DREAM. 



371 



And things are lost in the glare of 
day, 
Which I can make the sleeping see, 
If they will put their trust in me. 



And thou shalt know of things un- 
known, 

If thou wilt let me rest between 
The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown 

Over thine eyes so dark and sheen : " 
And half in hope, and half in fright. 
The Lady closed her eyes so bright. 

III. 

At first all deadly shapes were driven 

Tuuiultuously across her sleep, 
And o'er the vast cope of bending 
heaven 
All ghastly-visaged clouds did 
sweep ; 
And the Lady ever looked to spy 
If the golden sun shone forth on high. 

IV. 

And as towards the east she turned, 
She saw aloft in the morning air. 
Which now with hues of sunrise 
burned, 
A great black Anchor rising there ; 
And wherever the Lady turned her 

eyes. 
It hung before her in the skies. 

V. 

The sky was blue as the summer sea, 
The depths were cloudless overhead, 

The air was calm as it could be. 
There was no sight or sound of 
dread, 

But that black Anchor floating still 

Over the piny eastern hill. 



The Lady grew sick with a weight of 

fear. 
To see that Anchor ever hanging. 
And veiled her eyes ; she then did 

hear 
The sound as of a dim low clanging. 
And looked abroad as if she might 

know 
Was it aught else, or but the flow 
Of the blood in her own veins, to and 

fro. 

VII. 

There was a mist in the sunless air, 
Which shook as it were with an 
earthquake's shock, 



But the very weeds that blossomed 

there 
Were moveless, and each mighty 

rock 
Stood on its basis steadfastly ; 
The Anchor was seen no more on high. 

VIII. 

But piled around, with summits hid 
In lines of cloud at intervals. 

Stood many a mountain pyramid 
Among whose everlasting walls 

Two mighty cities shone, and ever 

Thro' the red mist their domes did 
quiver. 



On two dread mountains, from whose 
crest, 

Might seem, the eagle, for her brood, 
Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest, 

Those tower-encircled cities stood. 
A vision strange such towers to see, 
Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously, 
Where human art could never be. 

X. 

And columns framed of marble white. 

Hnd giant fanes, dome over dome 
Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright 

With workmanship, which could not 
come 
From touch of mortal instrument 
Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent 
From its own shapes magnificent. 

XI. 

But still the Lady heard that clang 

Filling the wide air far away ; 
And still the mist whose light did hang 

Among the mountains shook alway 
So that the Lady's heart beat fast, 
As half in joy, and half aghast. 
On those high domes her look she cast. 



Sudden, from out that city sprung 
A light that made the earth grow 
red ; 
Two flames that each with quivering 
tongue 
Licked its high domes, and overhead 
Among those mighty towers and fanes 
Dropt fire, as a volcano rains 
Its sulphurous ruin on the plains. 



And hark ! a ru.sh as if the deep 
Had burst its bonds ; she lookt be- 
hind 



372 



TO CONSTANTIA, SINGING. 



And saw over the western steep 

A raging flood descend, and wind 
Thro' that wild vale ; she felt no fear, 
But said within herself, 'T is clear 
These towers are Nature's own, and she 
To save them has sent forth the sea. 



And now those raging billows came 

Where that fair Lady sate, and she 
Was borne towards the showering 
flame 
By the wild waves heapt tumultu- 
ously 
And on a little plank, the flow 
Of the whirlpool bore her to and fro. 



The flames were fiercely vomited 

Prom every tower and every dome, 
And dreary light did widely shed 
O'er that vast flood's suspended 
foam, 
Beneath the smoke which hung its 

night 
On the stained cope of heaven's light. 



The plank whereon the lady sate 
Was driven thro' the chasms, about 
and about, 
Between the peaks so desolate 
Of the drowning mountains, in and 
out, 
As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind. 

sails- 
While the flood was filling those hol- 
low vales. 

XVII. 

At last her plank an eddy crost, 
And bore her to the city's wall, 
Which now the flood had reacht al- 
most ; 
It might the stoutest heart appal 
To hear the fire roar and hiss 
Thro' the domes of those mighty 
palaces. 

XVIII. 

The eddy whirled her round and round 
Before a gorgeous gate, which stood 

Piercing the clouds of smoke which 
bound 
Its aery arch with light like blood ; 

She lookt on that gate of marble clear 

With wonder that extinguisht fear. 



For it was filled with sculptures rarest, 
Of forms most beautiful and strange. 

Like nothing human, but the fairest 
Of winged shapes, whose legions 
range 

Throughout the sleep of those that are, 

Like this same Lady, good and fair. 



And as she lookt, still lovelier grew 
Those marble forms ;— the sculptor 
sure 
Was a strong spirit, and the hue 

Of his own mind did there endure 
After the touch; whose power had 

braided 
Such grace, was in some sad change 
faded. 

XXI. 

She lookt, the flames were dim, the 
flood 
Grew tranquil as a woodland river 
Winding thro' hills in solitude ; 
Those marble shapes then seemed to 
quiver 
And their fair limbs to float in motion, 
Like weeds unfolding in the ocean. 

XXII. 

And their lips moved ; one seemed to 

speak. 
When suddenly the mountains 

crackt. 
And thro' the chasm the flood did 

break 
With an earth-uplifting cataract : 
The statues gave a joyous scream, 
And on its wings the pale thin dream 
Lifted the Lady from the stream. 



The dizzy flight of that phantom pale 
Waked the fair Lady from her sleep, 
And slie arose, while from the veil 

Of her dark eyes the dream did creep, 
And she walkt about as one who knew 
That sleep has sights as clear and true 
As any waking eyes can view. 

TO CONSTANTIA, SINGING. 



Thus to be lost and thus to sink an^ 
die, 
Perchance were death indeed ! — Con 
stantia, turn ! 



ANOTHER FRAGMENT TO MUSIC. 



373 



In thj dark eyes a power like light doth 

We, 
' Even tho' the sounds which were thy 

voice, which burn 
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep ; 
AVithin thy breath, and on thy hair, 
like odor it is yet, 
And from thy touch like fire doth leap. 
Even while I write, my burning 
cheeks are wet, 
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, 
but not forget ! 



A breathless awe, like the swift change 
Unseen, but felt in youthful slum- 
bers. 
Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably 
strange. 
Thou breathest now in fast ascend- 
ing numbers. 
The cope of heaven seems rent and 
cloven 
By the enchantment of thy strain, 
And on my shoulders wings are woven. 

To follow its sublime career. 
Beyond the mighty moons that wane 
Upon the -s-erge of nature's utmost 

sphere. 
Till the world's shadowy walls are 
past and disappear. 



Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — it 
lingers 
O'ershadowing it with soft and lull- 
ing wings, 
The blood and life within those snowy 
fingers 
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental 
strings. 
My brain is wild, my breath comes 
quick— 
The blood is listening in my frame. 
And thronging shadows, fast and thick, 

Fall on my overflowing eyes ; 
My heart is quivering like a flame ; 
As morning dew, that in the sun- 
beam dies, 
I am dissolved in these consuming 
ecstasies. 



I have no life, Constantia, now, but 
thee. 
Whilst, like the world-surrounding 
air, thy song 
Flows on, and fills all things with mel- 
ody.— 
Now is thy voice a tempest swift and 
strong, 



On which, like one in trance upborne. 
Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep. 
Rejoicing like a cloud of morn. 

Now 't is the breath of summer night. 
Which when the starry waters sleep. 
Round western isles, with incense- 
blossoms bright. 
Lingering, suspends my soul in its 
voluptuous flight. 

TO CONSTANTIA. 

I. 

The rose that drinks the fountain dew 

In the pleasant air of noon. 
Grows pale and blue with altered 
hue— 
In the gaze of the nightly moon ; 
For the planet of frost, so cold and 

bright, 
Makes it wan with her borrowed light. 

II. 

Such is my heart — roses are fair. 
And that at best a withered blos- 
som ; 
But thy false care did idyl wear 
Its withered leaves in a faithless 
bosom ; 
And fed with love, like air and dew. 
Its growth 

FRAGMENT : TO ONE SINGING. 

Mr spirit like a charmed bark doth 
swim 
Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet 
singing. 
Far away into the regions dim 
Of rapture— as a boat, with swift 
sails winging 
Its way adown some many-winding 
river. 

A FRAGMENT : TO MUSIC. 

Silver key of the fountain of tears. 
Where the spirit drinks till the brain 
is wild ; 
Softest grave of a thousand fears. 
Where their mother. Care, like a 

drowsy child. 
Is laid asleep in flowers. 

ANOTHER FRAGMENT TO 
MUSIC. 

No, Music, thou art not the " food of 

Love," 
Unless Love feeds upon its own sweet 

self, 
Till it becomes all Music murmurs of. 



374 



"MIGHTY' EAGLE." 



I 



"MIGHTY EAGLE." 

SUPPOSED TO BE ADDRESSED TO 
WILLIAM GODWIN. 

Mighty eagle ! thou that soarest 
O'er the misty mountain forest 

And amid the light of morning 
Like a cloud or glory hiest, 
And when night descends deftest 

The embattled tempests' warning ! 

TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR. 
I. 

Thy country's curse is on thee, darkest 
crest 
Of that foul, knotted, many-headed 
worm 
Which rends our Mother's bosom- 
Priestly Pest ! 
Maskt Resurrection of a buried 
Form 1 

II. 

Thy country's curse is on thee 1 Jus- 
tice sold, 

Truth trampled, Nature's landmarks 
overthrown, 

And heaps of fraud-accumulated gold. 
Plead, loud as thunder, at Destruc- 
tion's throne. 



And, whilst that sure slow Angel which 
aye stands 
Watching the beck of Mutability 
Delays to execute her high commands, 
And, tho' a nation weeps, spares 
thine and thee. 



O let a father's curse be on thy soul, 
And let a daughter's hope Se on thy 
tomb ; 
Be both, on thy gray head, a leaden 
cowl 
To weigh thee down to thine ap- 
proaching doom ! 



I curse thee ! By a parent's outraged 
love. 
By hopes long cherish t and too lately 
lost, 
By gentle feelings thou couldst never 
prove. 
By griefs which thy stern nature 
never crost ; 



By those Infantine smiles of happy 
light. 
Which were a fire within a stranger's 
hearth, 
Quencht even when kindled, in un- ^ 
timely night, 
Hiding the promise of alovely birth ; 



By those unpractised accents of young 
speech, 
Which he who is a father thought to ' 
frame 

To gentlest lore, such as the wisest^ 
teach — 
Thou strike the lyre of mind ! O 
grief and shame ! 



By all the happy see in children's 
growth — 
That undevelopt flower of budding 
years- 
Sweetness and sadness interwovem', 
both, I i 

Source of the sweetest hopes and sad- 
dest fears— 



IX. 

By all the days under an hireling's 
care. 
Of dull constraint and bitter heavi- 
ness, — 
O wretched ye if ever any were, — 
Sadder than orphans, yet not father- 
less ! 

X. 

By the false cant which on their inno- 
cent lips 
Must hang like poison on an opening 
bloom. 
By the dark creeds which cover with 
eclipse 
Their pathway from the cradle to the 
tomb- 



By thy most impious Hell, and all its 
terror ; 
By all the grief, the madness, and the 
guilt 
Of thine impostures, which must be 
their error— 
That sand on which thy crumbling 
power is built— 



^ 



TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. 



375 



XII. 

3v thy -complicity with lust and hate— 
I Thy tY.irst for tears— thy hunger 

afte? gold — 
The ready frauds which ever on thee 

wait— 
The servile arts in which thou hast 

grown old— 

Kill. 

By thy most killing sneer, and by thy 
smile — 
By all the arts and snares of thy black 
den, 
And— for thou canst outweep the croco- 
dile- 
By thy false tears— those millstones 
braining men — 



By all the hate which checks a father's 
love — 
By all the scorn which kills a father's 
care — 
By those most impious hands which 
dared remove 
Nature's high bounds— by thee— and 
by despair— 

XV. 

Yes, the despair which bids a father 

groan, 
And cry, "My children are no longer 

mine — 
The blood within those veins may be 

mnie own. 
But— Tyrant— their polluted souls 

are thine ; — " 

XVI. 

I curse thee— though I hate thee not 
— O slave ! 
If thou couldst quench the earth-con- 
suming Hell 
Of which thou art a daemon, on thy 
grave 
This curse should be a blessing. Fare 
thee well ! 



TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. 



The billows on the beach are leaping 
around it. 
The bark is weak and frail. 
The sea looks black, and the clouds 
that bound it 
Darkly strew the gale. 



Come with me, thou delightful child, 
Come with me, tho' the wave is wild. 
And the winds are loose, we must not 

stay. 
Or the slaves of the law may rend thee 

away. 



They have taken thy brother and sister 

dear. 

They have made them unfit for thee; 

They have withered the smile and dried 

the tear 

Which should have been sacred to|me. 

To a blighting faith and a cause of 

crime 
They have bound them slaves in 

youthly prime. 
And they will curse my name and thee 
Because we are fearless and free. 



Come thou, beloved as thou art ; 

Another sleepeth still 
Near thy sweet mother's anxious heart, 

Which thou with joy shalt fill, 
With fairest smiles of wonder thrown 
On that which is indeed our own. 
And which in distant lands will be 
The dearest playmate unto thee. 



Fear not the tyrants will rule for ever, 
Or the priests of the evil faith : 

They stand on the brink of that rag- 
ing river. 
Whose waves they have tainted with 
death. 

It is fed from the depth of a thousand 
dells. 

Around them it foams and rages and 
swells ; 

And their swords and their sceptres I 
floating see. 

Like wrecks on the surge of eternity. 



Rest, rest, and shriek not, thou gentle 
child! 
The rocking of the boat thou fearest. 
And the cold spray and the clamor 
wild ?— , 

There sit between us two, thou dear- 
est— 
Me and thy mother— well we know 
The storm at which thou tremblest so, 
With all its dark and hungry graves. 
Less cruel than the savage slaves 
Who hunt us o'er these sheltermg 
waves. 



37G 



FROM THE ORIGINAL DRAFT OF THE POEM. 



VI. 

This hour will in thy memory 

Be a dream of days forgotten long, 
We soon shall dwell by the azure sea 
Of serene and golden Italy, 
Or Greece, the Mother of the free ; 

And I will teach thine infant tongue 
To call upon those heroes old 
In their own language, and will mould 
Thy growing spirit in the flame 
Of Grecian lore, that bj^ such name 
A patriot's birthright thou mayst 
claim ! 



FROM THE ORIGINAL DRAFT 
OF THE POEM TO WILLIAM 
SHELLEY. 

I. 

The world is now our dwelling-place; 
Where'er the earth one fading trace 

Of what was great and free does 
keep. 
That is our home ! . . . 
Mild thoughts of man's ungentle race 

Shall our contented exile reap ; 
For who that in some happy place 
His own free thoughts can freely chase 
By woods and waves can clothe his 
face [weep. 

In cynic smiles ? Child ! we shall 

II. 

This lament, 
The memory of thy grievous wrong 
Will fade . . . 
But genius is omnipotent 
To hallow . . . 

ON FANNY GODWIN. 

Her voice did quiver as we parted. 
Yet knew I not that heart was 
broken 
From which it came, and I departed 
Heeding not the words then spoken. 
Misery— O Misery, 
This world is all too wide for thee. 

LINES. 

I. 

That time is dead for ever, child. 
Drowned, frozen, dead for ever ! 

We look on the past 

And stare aghast 
At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast, 
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled 

To death on life's dark river. 



The stream we gazed on thei:, rolled L 
by; f 

Its waves are unreturning ; L 

But we yet stand ' 

In a lone land. 
Like tombs to mark the memory 
Of hopes and fears, which fade and 

flee 
In the light of life's dim morning. 

DEATH. 



They 'die— the dead return not— 
Misery 
Sits near an open grave and calls 
them over, 
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard 
eye— 
They are the names of kindred, 
friend and lover, 
Which he so feebly calls— they all are 

gone ! 
Fond wretch, all dead, tho.se vacant 
names alone. 
This must familiar scene, my pain — 
These tombs alone remain. 

II. 

Misery, my sweetest friend— oh ! weep i 
no more ! 
Thou wilt not be consoled I wonder 
not ! 
For I have seen thee from thy dwell- I 
ing's door 
Watch the calm sunset with them, 
and this spot 
Was even as bright and calm, but tran- 
sitory. 
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair 
is hoary ; 
This mo.st familiar scene, my pain — 
These tombs alone remain. 



OTHO. 
I. 

Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou 

couldst not be, 
Last of the Romans, tho' thy 

memory claim 
From Brutus his own glory — and on 

thee 
Rests the full splendor of his sacred 

fame ; 
Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant 

quail 



FRAGMENT : SATAN AT LAllGE. 



377 



Ami'i his cowering senate with thy 

name, 
'ho' thovi and he were great— it will 

avail 
'o thine own fame that Otho's should 

not fail 

II. 

? will wrong thee not — thou wouldst, 

if thou couldst feel, 
Abjure such envious fame — great 

Otho died 
like thee— he sanctified his country's 

steel, 
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide, 
1 his own blood — a deed it was to 

bring 
Tears from all men— tho' full of 

gentle pride, 
uch pride as from impetuous love 

may spring, 
hat will not be refused its offering. 

FRAGMENTS SUPPOSED TO BE 
PARTS OF OTHO. 

I. 

HOSE whom nor power, nor lying 
faith, nor toil, 

Nor custom, queen of many slaves, 
makes blind, 

[ave ever grieved that man should be 
the spoil 

Of his own weakness, and with ear- 
nest mind 

ed hopes of its redemption, these re- 
cur 

Chastened by earthful victory now, 
and find 

oundations in this foulest age, and 
stir 

re whom they cheer to be their 
minister. 



II. 



lark is the realm of grief : but human 

things 
Those may not know who cannot 

weep for them. 



III. 

Once more descend 
The shadows of my soul upon man- 
kind, 
or to those hearts with which they 

never blend, 
Thoughts are but shadows which the 
flashing mind 



From the swift clouds which track its 
flight of fire, 
Casts on the gloomy world it leaves 
behind. 



FRAGMENT : A CLOUD- 
CHARIOT. 

O THAT a chariot of cloud were mine ! 
Of cloud which the wild tempest 
weaves in air, 
When the moon over the ocean's line 
Is spreading the locks of her bright 
gray hair. 
O that a chariot of cloud were mine ! 
I would sail on the waves of the bil- 
lowy wind 
To the mountain peak and the rocky 

lake, 
And the . . . 



FRAGMENT : TO ONE FREED 
FROM PRISON. 

For me, my friend, if not that tears 
did tremble 
In my faint eyes, and that my heart 
beat fast 
With feelings which make rapture 
pain resemble. 
Yet, from thy voice that falsehood 
starts aghast, 
I thank thee— let the tyrant keep 
His chains and tears, yea let him weep 
With rage to see thee freshly risen, 
Like strength from slumber, from 

the prison, 
In which he vainly hoped the soul to 
bind 
Which on the chains must prey that 
fetter humankind. 



FRAGMENT: SATAN AT LARGE. 

A golden-winge'd Angel stood 
Before the Eternal Judgment-seat : 

His looks were wild, and Devils' blood 
Stained his dainty hands and feet. 

The Father and the Son 

Knew that strife was now begun. 

They knew that Satan had broken his 
chain. 

And with millions of demons in his 
train. 

Was ranging over the world again. 

Before the Angel had told his tale, 
A sweet and a creeping sound 
Like the rushing of wings was heard 
around ; 

And suddenly the lamps grew pale — 



378 



FRAGMENT : UNSATISFIED DESIRE. 



The lamps, before the Archangels 
seven, 
That burned continually in heaven. 

FRAGMENT: UNSATISFIED 
DESIRE. 

To thirst and find no fill— to wail and 
wander 

With short uneasy steps— to pause and 
ponder — 

To feel the blood run thro' the veins 
and tingle 

Where busy thought and blind sensa- 
tion mingle ; 

To nurse the image of unfelt caresses 

Till dim imagination just possesses 

The half created shadow. 

FRAGMENT : LOVE IMMORTAL. 

Wealth and dominion fade into the 

mass 
Of the great sea of human right and 

wrong, 
When once from our possession they 

must pass ; 
But love, though misdirected, is 

among 
The things which are immortal, and 

surpass 
All that frail stuff which will be— or 

which was. 

FRAGMENT : THOUGHTS IN 
SOLITUDE. 

My thoughts arise and fade in soli- 
tude, 
The verse that would invest them 

melts away 
Like moonlight in the heaven of 
spreading day : 

How beautiful they were, how firm 
they stood, 

Flecking the starry sky like woven 
pearl ! 

FRAGMENT : THE FIGHT 
WAS O'ER. 

The fight was o'er : the flashing thro' 

the gloom 
Which robes the cannon as he wings a 

tomb 
Had ceast. 

A HATE-SONG. 

A Hater he came and sat by a ditch, 
And he took an old crackt lute ; 



And he sang a song which was more of 
a screech 
'Gainst a woman that was a brute. 

LINES TO A CRITIC. 

I. 

Honey from silkworms who cani 
gather, 

Or silk from the yellow bee ? 
The grass may grow in winter weather 

As soon as hate in me. [ 

11. 

Hate men who cant, and men whoi 
pray, | 

And men who rail like thee ; ' 

An equal passion to repay 

They are not coy like me. 

III. 

Or seek some slave of power and gold,l 
To be thy dear heart's mate, ; 

Thy love will move that bigot cold 
Sooner than me thy hate. i 

IV. .| 

A passion like the one I prove 
Cannot divided be ; 

I hate thy want of truth and love- 
How should I then hate thee ? 

OZYMANDIAS. 

I MET a traveller from an antique landi 

Who said : " Two vast and trunkless 
legs of stone 

Stand in the desert. Near them, on 
the sand. 

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, 
whose frown. 

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold 
command. 

Tell that its sculptor well those pas- 
sions read 

Which yet survive, stampt on these 
lifeless things. 

The hand that mockt them and the 
heart that fed • 

And on the pedestal these words ap-i 
pear : 

'My name is Ozymandias, king ofj 
kings : 

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and de- 
spair ! " 

Nothing beside remains. Round the 
decay 

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and 

The lone and level sands stretch far 
away." 



ON A FADED VIOLET. 



370 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818. 
TO THE NILE. 

MciNTH after month the gathered rains 
descend 

Drenching yon secret Ethiopian dells, 

And from the desert's ice-girt pinna- 
cles 

Where Frost and Heat in strange em- 
braces blend 

On Atlas, fields of moist snow half de- 
pend. 

Girt there with blasts and meteors. 
Tempest dwells 

By Nile's aerial urn, with rapid spells 

Urging those waters to their mighty 
end. 

O'er Egypt's land of Memory floods are 
level 

And they are thine, O Nile ! — and well 
thou knowest 

That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of 
evil 

And fruits and poisons spring where'er 
thou flowest. 

Beware O Man — for knowledge must 
to thee 

Like the great flood to Egypt, ever be. 



PASSAGE OF THE APENNINES. 

Listen, listen, Mary mine. 

To the whisper of the Apennine, 

It bursts on the roof like the thunder's 

roar. 

Or like the sea on a northern shore. 
Heard in its raging ebb'and flow 
By the captives pent in the cave below. 
The Apennine in the light oi: day 
Is a mighty mountain dim and gray. 
Which between the earth and sky doth 

lay ; 

But when night comes, a chaos dread 
On the dim starlight then is spread. 
And the Apennine walks abroad with 

the storm. 



THE PAST. 

I. 

Wilt thou forget the happy hours 
Which we buried in Love's sweet 

bowers, 

Heaping o'er their corpses cold 
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould ? 
Blossoms which were the joys that 

fell, 



And leaves, the hopes that yet re- 
main. 

II. 

Forget the dead, the past ? O yet 
There are ghosts that may take re- 
venge for it, 
Memories that make the heart a tomb, 
Regrets which glide thro' the spirit's 
gloom, 
And with ghastly whispers tell 
That joy, once lost, is pain. 



TO MARY . 

Mart dear, that you were here. 
With your bright eyes brown and 

clear 
And your sweet voice, like a bird 
Singing love to its lone mate 
In the ivy bower disconsolate ; 
Voice the sweetest ever heard ! 
And your brow more . . . 
Than the sky 

Of this azure Italy. 
Mary dear, come to me soon, 

1 am not well whilst thou art far ; 
As sunset to the sphered moon, 
As twilight to the western star, 
Thou, beloved, art to me. 

O Mary dear, that you were here ; 
'The Castle echo whispers " Here 1" 



ON A FADED VIOLET. 
I. 

The odor from the flower is gone 
Which like thy kisses breathed on 
me ; 
The color from the flower is flown 
Which glowed of thee and only 
thee ! 



II. 

A shrievelled, lifeless, vacant form, 
It lies on my abandoned breast. 

And mocks the heart which yet la 
warm, 
With cold and silent rest. 



I weep, — my tears revive it not ! 

I sigh, — it breathes no more on me ; 
Its mute and uncomplaining lot 
Such as mine should be. 



580 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 



LINES 

WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN 
HILLS. 

October, 1818. 

Many a green isle needs must be 

In the deep wide sea of misery, 

Or the mariner, worn and wan, 

Never thus could voyage on 

Day and night, and night and day, 

Drifting on his dreary way, 

With the solid darkness black 

Closing round his vessel's track ; 

Whilst above, the sunless sky. 

Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 

And behind the tempest fleet 

Hurries on witli lightning feet. 

Riving sail, and cord, and plank. 

Till the ship has almost drank 

Death from the o'er-brimming deep ; 

And sinks down, down, like that sleep 

When the dreamer seems to be 

Weltering through eternity ; 

And the dim low line before 

Of a dark and distant shore 

Still recedes, as ever still 

Longing with divided will. 

But no power to seek or shun. 

He is ever drifted on 

O'er the unreposing wave 

To the haven of the grave. 

What, if there no friends will greet ; 

What, if there no heart will meet 

His with love's impatient beat ; 

Wander wheresoe'er he may. 

Can he dream before that day 

To find refuge from distress 

In friendship's smile, in love's caress ? 

Then 't will wreak him little woe 

Whether such there be or no : 

Senseless is the breast, and cold. 

Which relenting love would fold ; 

Bloodless are the veins and chill 

Which the pulse of pain did fill ; 

Every little living nerve 

That from bitter words did swerve 

Round the tortured lips and brow. 

Are like sapless leaflets now 

Frozen upon December's bough. 

On the beach of a northern sea 

Which tempests shake eternally, 

As once the wretch there lay to sleep. 

Lies a solitary heap. 

One white skull and seven dry bones. 

On the margin of the stones. 

Where a few gray rushes stand, 

Boundaries of the sea and land : 

Nor is heard one voice of wail 

But the sea-mews, as they sail 



O'er the billows of the gale ; 
Or the whirlwind up and down 
Howling, like a slaughtered town, 
When a king in glory rides 
Through the pomp of fratricides : 
Those unburied bones around 
There is many a mournful sound ; 
There is no lament for him. 
Like a sunless vapor, dim. 
Who once clothed with life and 

thought 
What now moves nor murmurs not. 



Ay, many flowering islands lie 

In the waters of wide Agony : 

To such a one this morn was led, 

My bark by soft winds piloted : 

Mid the mountains Euganean 

I stood listening to the paean, 

With which the legioned rooks dido' 

hail 
The sun's uprise majestical ; 
Gathering round with wings all hoar, 
Thro' the dewy mist they soar 
Like gray shades, till the easterni 

heaven 
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 
Fleckt with fire and azure, lie 
In the unfathomable sky. 
So their plumes of purple grain. 
Starred with drops of golden rain, 
Gleam above the sunlight woods. 
As in silent multitudes 
On the morning's fitful gale 
Thro' the broken mist they sail. 
And the vapors cloven and gleaming 
Follow down fhe dark steep streaming,; 
Till all is bright, and clear, and still, 
Round the solitary hill. 

Beneath is spread like a green sea 
The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
Bounded by the vaporous air. 
Islanded by cities fair ; 
Underneath day's azure eyes 
Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, 
A peopled labyrinth of walls 
Amphitrite's destined halls, 
Which her hoary sire now paves 
With his blue and beaming waves. 
Lo ! the sun upsprings behind. 
Broad, red, radiant, half reclined 
On the level quivering line 
Of the waters crystalline ; 
And before that chasm of light, 
As within a furnace bright. 
Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 
Shine like obelisks of fire. 
Pointing with inconstant motion 
From the altar of dark ocean 
To the sapphire-tinted skies ; 
As the flames of sacrifice 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 



381 



rom the marble shrines did rise, 
.s to pierce the dome of gold 
^here Apollo spoke of old. 

un-girt City, thou hast been 

iceaii's child, and then his queen ; 

ow is come a darker day, 

.nd thou soon must be his prey, 

f the power that raised thee here 

[allow so thy watery bier. 

. less drear ruin then than now, 

V'ith thy conquest-branded brow 

tooping to the slave of slaves 

'rom thy throne, among the waves 

Vilt thou be, when the sea-mew 

'lies, as once before it flew, 

)'er thine isles depopulate, 

.nd all is in its ancient state, 

lave where many a palace gate 

Vith green sea-flowers overgrown 

Ake a rock of ocean's own, 

"■opples o'er the abandoned sea 

Vs the tides change sullenly. 

lie fisher on his watery way, 

iiVandering at the close of day, 

A'ill spread his sail and seize his oar 

rill he pass the gloomy shore, 

■.est thy dead should, from their sleep 

Bursting o'er the starlight deep, 

L,ead a rapid masque of death 

3'er the waters of his path. 

Those who alone thy towers behold 
Quivering thro' aerial gold, 
A.S I now behold them here. 
Would imagine not they were 
Sepulchres, where human forms. 
Like poUution-nourisht worms 
To the corpse of greatness cling. 
Murdered, and now mouldering : 
But if Freedom should awake 
In her omnipotence, and shake 
From the Celtic Anarch's hold 
All the keys of dungeons cold. 
Where a hundred cities lie 
Chained like thee, ingloriously. 
Thou and all thy sister band 
Might adorn this sunny land. 
Twining memories of old time 
With new virtues more sublime ; 
If not, perish thou and they, 
Clouds which stain truth's rising day 
By her sun consumed away, 
Earth can spare ye : while like flowers 
In the waste of years and hours, 
From your dust new nations spring 
With more kindly blossoming. 
Perish— let there only be 
Floating o'er thy heartless sea 
As the garment of thy sky 
Clothes the world immortally, 



One remembrance, more sublime 

Than the tattered pall of time, 

Which scarce hides thy visage wan ;— 

That a tempest-cleaving Swan 

Of the songs of Albion, 

Driven from his ancestral streams 

By the might of evil dreams, 

Found a nest in thee ; and Ocean 

Welcomed him with such emotion 

That its joy grew his, and sprung 

From his lips like music flung 

O'er a mighty thunder-fit 

Chastening terror :— what tho' yet 

Poesy's unfailing River, 

Which thro' Albion winds forever 

Lashing with melodious wave 

Many a sacred Poet's grave, 

Mourn its latest nursling fled ? 

What tho' thou with all thy dead 

Scarce can for this fame repay 

Aught thine own ? oh, rather say 

Tho' thy sins and slaveries foul 

Overcloud a sunlike soul ? 

As the ghost of Homer clings 

Round Scamander's wasting springs ; 

As divinest Shakespeare's might 

Fills Avon and the world with light • 

Like omniscient power which he 

Imaged mid mortality ; 

As the love from Petrarch's urn, 

Yet amid yon hills doth burn, 

A quenchless lamp by which the heart 

Sees things unearthly ;— so thou art 

Mighty spirit— so shall be 

The City that did refuge thee. 

Lo, the sun floats up the sky 
Like thought-winged Liberty, 
Till the universal light 
Seems to level plain and height ; 
From the sea a mist has spread. 
And the beams of morn lie dead 
On the towers of Venice now, 
Like its glory long ago. 
By the skirts of that gray cloud 
Many-domed Padua proud 
Stands, a peopled solitude, 
Mid the harvest-shining plain, 
Where the peasant heaps his gram 
In the garner of his foe, 
And the milk-white oxen slow 
With the purple vintage strain, 
Heapt upon the creaking wain, 
That the brutal Celt may swill 
Drunken sleep with savage will ; 
And the sickle to the sword 
Lies unchanged, tho' many a lord, 
Like a weed whose shade is poison, 
Overgrows this region's foison, 
Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 
J To destruction's harvest-home : 



382 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 



Men must reap the things they sow, 
Force from force must evt^r flow, 
Or worse ; but 't is a hitter woe 
That love or reason cannot change 
The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 

Padua, thou within whose walls 
Those mute guests at festivals, 
Son and Mother, Death and Sin, 
Played at dice for Ezzelin, 
Till Death cried, " I win, I win ! " 
And Sin curst to lose the wager. 
But Death promist, to assuage her, 
That he would petition for 
Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 
When the destined years were o'er, 
Over all between the Po 
And the eastern Alpine snow. 
Under the mighty Austrian. 
Sin smiled so as Sin only can, 
And since that time, ay, long before. 
Both have ruled from shore to shore. 
That incestuous pair, who follow 
Tyrants as the sun the swallow, 
As repentance follows Crime, 
And as changes follow Time. 

In thine halls the lamp of learning, 

Padua, now no more is burning ; 

Like a meteor, whose wild way 

Is lost over the grave of day. 

It gleams betrayed and to betray : 

Once remotest nations came 

To adore that sacred flame. 

When it lit not many a hearth 

t)n this cold and gloomy earth : 

Now new ttres from antique light 

Spring beneath the wide world's 

might ; 
But their spark lies dead in thee, 
Trampled out by tyranny. 
As the Norway woodman quells. 
In the depth of piny dells, 
One light flame among the brakes 
While the boundless forest shakes, 
And its mighty trunks are torn 
By the fire thus lowly born : 
The spark beneath his feet is dead, 
He starts to see the flames it fed 
Howling thro' the darkened sky 
With a myriad tongues victoriously. 
And sinks down in fear : so thou 
O tyranny ! beholdest now 
Light around thee, and thou hearest 
The lovid flames ascend, and fearest : 
Grovel on the earth ! ay, hide 
In the dust thy purple pride ! 

Noon descends around me now : 
'T is the noon of autumn's glow. 
When a soft and purple mist 
Like a vaporous amethyst, 



Or an air-dissolved star 
Mingling light and fragrance, far 
From the curved horizon's bound 
To the point of heaven's profound, 
Fills the overflowing sky ; 
And the plains that silent lie 
Underneath, the leaves unsodden 
Where the infant frost has trodden 
With his morning-winged feet. 
Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 
And the red and golden vines. 
Piercing with their trellist lines 
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 
The dun and bladed grass no less. 
Pointing from this hoary tower 
In the windless air ; the flower 
Glimmering at my feet ; the line 
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine 
In the south dimly islanded : 
And the Alps, whose snows are sprea; 
High between the clouds and sun ; 
And of living things each one ; 
And my spirit which so long 
Darkened this swift stream of song, 
Interpenetrated lie 
By the glory of the sky : 
Be it love, light, harmony. 
Odor, or the soul of all 
Which from heaven like dew doth fal 
Or the mind which feeds this verse 
Peopling the lone universe. 
Noon descends, and after noon 
Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
Leading the infantine moon. 
And that one star, which to her 
Almost seems to minister 
Half the crimson light she brings 
From the sunset's radiant springs : 
And the soft dreams of the morn 
(Which like winged winds had borne 
To that silent isle, which lies 
Mid remembered agonies. 
The frail bark of this lone being) 
Pass, to otlier sutTerers fleeing. 
And its ancient pilot. Pain, 
Sits beside the helm again. 

Other flowering isles must be 
In the sea of life and agony : 
Other spirits float and flee 
O'er that gulf : even now, perhaps, 
On some rock the wild wave wraps. 
With folded wings they waiting sit 
For my bark, to pilot it 
To some calm and blooming cove, 
Where for me, and those I love, 
May a windless bower be built, 
Far from passion, pain, and guilt. 
In a dell mid lawny hills. 
Which the wild sea-murmur fills. 
And soft sunshine, and the sound 
Of old forests echoing round, 



TO MISERY. 



383 



\nd the light and smell divme 

3f all flowers that breathe and shine : 

vVe may live so happy there, 

That the spirits of the air, 

Envying us, may even entice 

To our healing paradise 

The polluting multitude ; 

But their rage would be subdued 

By that clime divine and calm, 

And the wind whose wings rain balm 

On the uplifted soul, and leaves 

Under which the bright sea heaves ; 

While each breathless interval 

In their whisperings musical 

The inspired soul supplies 

With its own deep melodies, 

And the love which heals all strife 

Circling, like the breath of life. 

All things in that sweet abode 

With its own mild brotherhood : 

They, not it, would change ; and soon 

Every sprite beneath the moon 

Would repent its envy vain. 

And the earth grow young again. 

SCENE FROM " TASSO." 

Maddalo, a Courtier. Pigna, a Minister. 
Malpiglio, a Poet. Albano, nri Usher. 

Maddalo. No access to the Duke ! 
You have not said 
That the Count Maddalo would speak 
with him ? 
Pigna. Did you inform his Grace 
that Signer Pigna 
Waits with state papers for his signa- 
ture ? 
Malpiglio. The Lady Leonora cannot 
know 
That I have written a sonnet to her 

fame. 
In which I Venus and Adonis. 

You should not take my gold and serve 
me not. 
Alhano. In truth I told her , and she 
smiled and said, 
" If I am Venus, thou, coy Poesy, 
Art the Adonis whom I love, and he 
The Ervmanthian boar that wounded 

him." 
O trust to me, Signer Malpiglio, 
Those nods and smiles were favors 
worth the zechin. 
Malpiglio. The words are twisted 
in some double sense 
That I reach not : the smiles fell not 
on me. 
Pigna. How are the Duke and 

Duchess occupied ? 
Alhano. Buried in some strange 
talk. The Duke was leaning. 



His finger on his brow, his lips un- 
closed. 

The Princess sate within the window- 
seat. 

And so her face was hid ; but on her 
knee 

Her hands were claspt, veined, and 
pale as snow, 

And quivering— young Tasso, too, was 

Maddalo. Thou seest on whom 
from thine own worshipped 
heaven 
Thou drawest down smiles— they did 
not rain on thee. 
Malpiglio. Would they were parch- 
ing lightnings for his sake 
On whom they fell ! 

SONG FOR "TASSO." 

I. 

I LOVED— alas ! our life is love ; 

But when we cease to breathe and 

move 
I do suppose love ceases too. 
I thought, but not as now I do, 
Keen thoughts and bright of linked 

lore. 
Of all that men have thought before, 
And all that nature shows, and more. 



And still I love and still I think. 

But strangely, for my heart can drink 

The dregs of such despair, and live, 

And love ; . . . 

And if I think, my thoughts come fast, 

I mix the present with the past, 

And each seems uglier than the last. 

III. 

Sometimes I see before me flee 
A silver spirit's form, like thee, / 
O Leonora, and I sit 
. . . still watching it. 
Till by the grated casement's ledge 
It fades, with such a sigh, as sedge 
Breathes o'er the breezy streamlet's 
edge. 

TO MISERY. 

I. 

Come, be happy !— sit near me, 
Shadow-vested Misery : 
Coy, unwilling, silent bride. 
Mourning in thy robe of pride. 
Desolation— deified ! 



384 



STANZAS. 



Come, be liappj' ;— sit near me 
Sad as I may seem to thee, 
I am happier far than thou, 
Lady, whose imperial brow 
Is endiademed with woe. 



Misery ! we have known each other, 
Like a sister and a brother 
Living in the same lone home, 
Many years — we must live some 
Hours or ages yet to come. 



'T is an evil lot, and yet 

Let us make the best of it ; 

If love can live when pleasure dies, 

We two will love, till in our eyes 

This heart's Hell seem Paradise. 



Come, be happy !— lie thee down 
On the fresh grass newly mown, 
Where the Grasshopper doth sing 
Merrily — one joyous thing 
In a world of sorrowing ! 



There our tent shall be the willow 
And thine arm shall be my pillow ; 
Sounds and odors sorrowful 
Because they once were sweet, shall 

lull 
Us to slumber, deep and dull. 

VII. 

Ha ! thy frozen pulses flutter 

With a love thou darest not utter. 

Thou art murmuring— thou art weep- 
ing — 

Is thine icy bosom leaping 

While my burning heart lies sleep- 
ing? 



Kiss me ;— oh ! thy lips are cold ; 
Round my neck thine arms enfold- 
They are soft, but chill and dead ; 
And thy tears upon my head 
Burn like points of frozen lead. 



Hasten to the bridal bed — 
Underneath the grave 't is spread 
In darkness may our love be hid, 



Oblivion be our coverlid— 
We may rest, and none forbid. 

X. 

Clasp me till our hearts be grown 
Like two shadows into one ; 
Till this dreadful transport may 
Like a vapor fade away 
In the sleep that lasts alway. 



We may dream, in that long sleep. 
That we are not those who weep ; 
E'en as Pleasure dreams of thee, 
Life-deserting Misery, 
Thou mayst dream of her with me. 



Let us laugh, and make our mirth. 
At the shadows of the earth. 
As dogs bay the moonlight clouds. 
Which, like spectres wrapt in shrouds, 
Pass o'er night in multitudes. 



All the wide world, beside us 
Show like multitudinous 
Puppets passing from a scene ; 
What but mockery can they mean. 
Where I am— where thou hast been ? 

STANZAS. 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES. 

I. 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
The waves are dancing fast and 
bright, 
Blue isles and snowy mountains 
wear. 
The purple noon's transparent 

might. 
The breath of the moist earth is 
light. 
Around its unexpanded buds ; 

Like many a voice of one delight. 
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods. 
The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- 
tude's. 

II. 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
With green and purple seaweeds 
strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore. 
Like lights dissolved in star- 
showers, thrown : 
I sit upon the sands alone. 



THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 



385 



The lightning of the noontide ocean 

Is flashing round me, and a. tone 
Arises from its measured motion, 
How sweet ! did any heart now share 
in my emotion. 



Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within nor calm around, 
Nor that content surpassing wealth 
The sage in meditation found, 
And walkt with inward glory 
crowned — 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor 
leisure. 
Others I see whom these surround — 
Smiling they live, and call life pleas- 
ure ; — 
To me that cup has been dealt in an- 
other measure. 



IV. 

Yet now despair itself is mild. 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child. 
And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne and yet must 
bear, 
Till death like sleep might steal on 
me. 
And I might feel in the warm air 
My cheek grow cold, and hear the 
sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last 
monotony. 

V. 

Some might lament that I were cold. 
As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown 
old. 
Insults with this untimely moan ; 
They might lament — for I am one 
Whom men love not, — and yet regret. 
Unlike this day, which, when the 
sun 
Shall on its stainless glory set. 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in 
memory yet. 



THE WOODMAN AND THE 
NIGHTINGALE. 

A. WOODMAN whose rough heart was 

out of tune 
I think such hearts yet never came to 

good ) 
Hated to hear, under the stars or moon, 

25 



One nightingale in an interfluous wood 
Satiate the hungry dark with mel- 
ody ;— 
And as a vale is watered by a flood, 

Or as the moonlight fills the open sky 
Struggling with darkness— as a tube- 
rose 
Peoples some Indian dell with scents 
which lie 

Like clouds above the flower from 

which they rose. 
The singing of that happy nightingale 
In this sweet forest, from the golden 

close 

Of evening till the star of dawn may 

fail. 
Was interfused upon the silentness ; 
The folded roses and the violets pale 

Heard her within their slumbers, the 
abyss 

Of heaven with all its planets ; the dull 
ear 

Of the night-cradled earth ; the loneli- 
ness 

Of the circumfluous waters,— every 
sphere 

And every flower and beam and cloud 
and wave, 

And every wind of the mute atmos- 
phere, 

And every beast stretcht in its rugged 

cave. 
And every bird lulled on its mossy 

bough, 
And every silver moth fresh from the 

grave, 

Which is its cradle — ever from below 
Aspiring like one who loves too fair, 

too far, 
To be consumed within the purest glow 

Of one serene and unapproached star. 
As if it were a lamp of earthly light. 
Unconscious, as some human lovers 
are, 

Itself how low, how high beyond all 

height 
The heaven where it would perish !— 

and every form 
That worshipt in the temple of the 

night 



386 



MARENGHI. 



Was awed into delight, and by the 

charm 
Girt as with an interminable zone, 
Whilst that sweet bird, whose music 

was a storm 

Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion 
Out of their dreams ; harmony became 

love 
In every soul but one. 

And so this man returned with axe and 

saw 
At evening close from killing the tall 

treen, 
The soul of whom by nature's gentle 

law 

Was each a wood-nymph, and kept 

ever green 
The pavement and the roof of the wild 

copse. 
Checkering the sunlight of the blue 

serene 

With jagged leaves,— and from the for- 
est tops 

Singing the winds to sleep — or weep- 
ing oft 

Fast showers of aerial water drops 

Into their mother's bosom, sweet and 
soft, 

Nature's pure tears which have no bit- 
terness ; — 

Around the cradles of the birds aloft 

They spread themselves into the loveli- 
ness 

Of fan-like leaves, and over pallid 
flowers 

Hang like moist clouds : — or, where 
high branches kiss. 

Make a green space among the silent 

bowers, 
Like a vast fane in a metropolis, 
Surrounded by the columns and the 

towers 

All overwrought with branch-like 

traceries 
In which there is religion— and the 

mute 
Persuasion of unkindled melodies, 

Odors and gleams and murmurs, which 

the lute 
Of the blind pilot-spirit of the blast 
Stirs as it sails, now grave and now 

acute, 



Wakening the leaves and waves, ere it 

has past 
To such brief unison as on the brain 
One tone, which never can recur, has 

cast. 
One accent never to return again. 



The world is full of Woodmen whO' 

expel 
Love's gentle Dryads from the haunts 

of life, 
And vex the nightingales in every dell. 



MARENGHL' 



i 



Let those who pine in pride or in re-'' 

venge, 
Or think that ill for ill should be re-, 

paid. 
Or barter wrong for wrong, until the 

exchange 
Ruins the merchants of such thrift4 

less trade. 
Visit the tower of Vado, and unlearn 
Such bitter faith beside Marenghi's'f 



A massy tower yet overhangs the town.l 
A scattered group of ruined dwell-( 
ings now. 



III. 

Another scene ere wise Etruria knew 
Its second ruin thro' internal strife, 
And tyrants thro' the breach of discord 

threw 
The chain which binds and kills. As 

death to life, 
As winter to fair flowers (tho' some be 

poison) 
So Monarchy succeeds to Freedom's 

foison. 



IV. 

In Pisa's church a cup of sculptured 
gold 
Was brimming with the blood of 
feuds forsworn 
At sacrament : more holy ne'er of old ! 

* This fragment refers to an event told in 
Sismondi's Histoire de.i Republiques Jtal- 
ieyines, which occurred during the war 
whea Florence finally subdued Pisa, and re- 
duced it to a province [Mrs. Shelley]. 



MARENGHI. 



3S^ 



Etrurians mingled witli the shades 

forlorn 
f moon-illumined forests. 



nd reconciling factions wet their lips 
With that dread wine, and swear to 

keep each spirit 
ndarkened by their country's last 

eclipse. 



i''as Florence the liberticide ? that 
band 

Of free and glorious brothers who 
had pla/ited, 

ike a green isle mid JEthiopian sand, 

A nation amid slaveries, disen- 
chanted 

'f many impious faiths — wise, just — 
do they, 

loes Florence, gorge the sated tyrants' 
prey ? 



> foster-nurse of man's abandoned 
glory, 

Since Athens, its great mother, sunk 
in splendor ; 

hou shadowest forth that mighty 

shape in story. 
As ocean its wreckt fanes, severe yet 
tender : — 

'he light-invested angel Poesy 

Vas drawn from the dim world to wel- 
come thee. 



Lud thou in painting didst transcribe 

all taught 
By loftiest meditations ; marble 
knew 

'he sculptor's fearless soul — and as he 

wrought 
The grace of his own power and free- 
dom grew. 

Uid more than all, heroic, just, sub- 
lime, 

'hou wert among the false — was this 
thy crime ? 



f es ; and on Pisa's marble walls the 

twine 
Of direst weeds hangs garlanded — 

the snake 
inhabits its wrecked palaces ;— in thine 



A beast of subtler venom now doth 
make 

Its lair, and sits amid their glories over- 
thrown. 

And thus thy victim's fate is as thine 
own. 



The sweetest flowers are ever frail and 

rare. 
And love and freedom blossom but 

to wither ; 
And good and ill like vines entangled 

are. 
So that their grapes may oft be 

pluckt together ;— 
Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then 

make 
Thy heart rejoice for dead Marenghi's 

sake. 



No record of his crime remains in story. 
But if the morning bi'ight as evening 

shone, 
It was some high and holy deed, by 

glory 
Pursued into forgetfulness, which 

won 
From the blind crowd he made secure 

and free 
The patriot's meed, toil, death, and 

infamy. 

XII. 

For when by sound of trumpet was de- 
clared 
A price upon his life, and there was 
set 

A penalty of blood on all who shared 
So much of water with him as might 
wet 

His lips, which speech divided not— he 
Avent 

Alone, as you may guess, to banish- 
ment. 



Amid the mountains, like a hunted 
beast, 
He hid himself, and hunger, toil, and 
cold. 

Month after month endured ; it was a 
feast 
Whene'er he found those globes of 
deep-red gold 

Which in the woods the strawberry- 
tree doth bear, 

Suspended in their emerald atmos- 
phere. 



388 



MARENGHI. 



XIV. 

And in the roofless huts of vast mo- 
rasses, 
Deserted by the fever-stricken serf, 

All overgrown with reeds and long 
rank grasses, 
And hillocks heapt of moss-inwoven 
turf. 

And where the huge and speckled aloe 
made, 

Rooted in stones, a broad and pointed 
shade, 

XV. 

He housed himself. There is a point 
of strand 
Near Vado's tower and town ; and 
on one side 

The treacherous marsh divides it from 
the land. 
Shadowed by pine and ilex forests 
wide. 

And on the other creeps eternally, 

Thro' muddy weeds, the shallow sul- 
len sea. 

XVI. 

Here the earth's breath is pestilence, 
and few 
But things whose nature is at war 
with life- 
Snakes and ill worms — endure its mor- 
tal dew. 
The trophies of the clime's victorious 
strife- 
White bones, and locks of dun and 

yellow hair. 
And ringed horns which buffaloes did 
wear— 



XVII. 

And at the utmost point stood there 
The relics of a weed-inwoven cot, 

Thatcht with broad flags. An out- 
lawed murderer 
Had lived seven days there ; the pur- 
suit was hot 

When he was cold. The birds that 
were his grave 

Fell dead upon their feast in Vado's 
wave. 

XVIII. 

There must have lived within Maren- 
ghi's heart 
That fire, more warm and bright than 
life or hope, 



(Which to the martyr makes his dun 

geon . . . 
More joyous than the heaven's mai 

jestic cope 
To his oppressor), warring with de' 

cay,— 
Or he could ne'er have lived years, daj 

by day. 

XIX. 

Nor was his state so lone as you might 

think. 
He had tamed every newt and snake 

and toad. 
And every seagull which sailed dowr 

to drink 
Those ere the death-mist went 

abroad. 
And each one, with peculiar talk and 

play, 
Wiled, not untaught, his silent time 

away. 

XX, 

And the marsh-meteors, like tame 

beasts, at night 
Came licking with blue tongues hisi 

veiTied feet ; 
And he would watch them, as, like 

spirits bright, 
In many entangled figures quaint] 

and sweet 
To some enchanted music they would; 

dance — 
Until they vanisht at the first moon 

glance. 

XXI. 

He mockt the stars by grouping on 

each weed 
The summer dewdrops in the golder 

dawn ; 
And, ere the hoar-frost vanisht, he 

could read 
Its pictured footprints, as on spotsi 

of lawn 
Its delicate brief touch in silence 

weaves 
The likeness of the wood's remembered 

leaves. 



And many a fresh Spring-morn would] 

he awaken — 
While yet the unrisen sun made| 

glow, like iron 
Quivering in crimson fire, the peaks |i 

unshaken 



FRAG.MENT : TO BYROX. 



3S0 



Of mouutains and blue isles which 

did environ 
AVith air-clad crags that plain of land 

and sea, — 
4.nd feel liberty. 

XXIII. 

\.nd in the moonless nights, when the 
dim ocean 
Heaved underneath the hea- 
ven . . . 

starting from dreams . . . 
Communed with the immeasurable 
world : 

^.nd felt his life beyond his limbs 
dilated, 

nil his mind grew like that it contem- 
plated. 

XXIV. 

3is food was the wild fig and straw- 
berry ; 
The milky pine-nuts which the au- 
tumnal blast 

Shakes into the tall grass ; and such 
small fry 
As from the sea by winter-storms are 
cast ; 

,^nd the coarse bulbs of iris-flowers be 
found 

-•ilnotted in clumps under the spongy 
ground. 



\nd so were kindled powers and 
thoughts which made 
His solitude less dark. When mem- 
ory came 

For years gone by leave each a deep- 
ening shade). 
His spirit baskt in its internal 
flame — 

\.s, when the black storm hurries 
round at night, 

The fisher basks beside his red fire- 
light. 



^et human hopes and cares and faiths 
and errors, 
Like billows unawakened by the 
wind, 
jJlept in Marenghi still ; but that all 
terrors, 
"Weakness, and doubt, had withered 
in his mind. 
iis couch . . . 



XXVII. 

And, when he saw beneath the sun- 
set's planet 
A black ship walk over the crimson 
ocean, — 

Its pennons streaming on the blasts 
that fan it, 
Its sails and ropes all tense and with- 
out motion, 

Like the dark ghost of the unburied 
even 

Striding across the orange-colored 
heaven, — 

xxviii. • 

The thought of his own kind who made 
the soul 
Which sped that winged shape thro' 
night and day, — 

The thought of his own coun- 
try . . . 



SONNET. 

Lift not the painted veil which those 

who live 
Call Life : tho' unreal shapes be pic- 
tured there. 
And it but mimic all we would believe 
With colors idly spread,— behind, lurk 

Fear 
And Hope, twin destinies ; who ever 

weave 
Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sight- 
less and drear. 
I knew one who had lifted it— he 

sought. 
For his lost heart was tender, things 

to love. 
But found them not, alas ! nor was 

there aught 
The world contains, the which he could 

approve. 
Thro' the unheeding many he did 

move, 
A splendor among shadows, a bright 

blot 
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that 

strove 
For truth, and like the Preacher found 

it not. 

FRAGMENT : TO BYRON. 

O MIGHTY mind, in whose deep stream 

this age 
Shakes like a reed in the unheeding 

storm, 
Why dost thou curb not thine own 

sacred rage ? 



390 



FRAGMENT : APPEAL TO SILENCE. 



FRAGMENT : APPEAL TO 
SILENCE. 

Silence ! O well are Death and Sleep 

and Thou 
Three brethren named, the guardians 

gloomy-winged 
Of one abyss, where life, and truth, 

and joy 
Are swallowed up — yet spare me. 

Spirit, pity me. 
Until the sounds I hear become my 

soul, 
And it has left these faint and weary 

limbs, 
To track along the lapses of the air 
This wandering melody until it rests 
Among lone mountains in some . . . 



FRAGMENT : THE STREAM'S 
MARGIN. 

The tierce beasts of the woods and 

wildernesses 
Track not the steps of him who drinks 

of it : 
For the light breezes, which forever 

fleet 
Around its margin, heap the sand 

thereon. 



FRAGMENT : A LOST LEADER. 

My head is wild with weeping for a 
grief 
AV'hich is the shadow of a gentle 
mind. 
I walk into the air (but no relief 
To seek,— or haplv, if I sought, to 
find ; 
It came unsought) ;— to wonder that a 
chief 
Among men's spirits should be cold 
and blind. 



FRAGMENT : THE VINE AMID 
RUINS. 

Flourishing vine, whose kindling 
clusters glow 
Beneath the autumnal sun, none 
taste of thee ; 
For thou dost shroud a ruin, and be- 
low 
The rotting bones of dead an- 
tiquity. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819. 

LINES WRITTEN DURING THE 
CASTLEREAGH ADMINISTRA- 
TION. 

I. 

Corpses are cold in the tomb ; 
Stones on the pavement are dumb ; 
Abortions are dead in the womb, ^ ; 
And their mothers look pale— like then' 
white shore 
Of Albion, free no more. 



Her .sons are as stones in the way — 
They are masses of senseless clay — 

They are trodden, and move noti 
away, — 

The abortion with which she travaileth i 
Is Liberty, smitten to death. 

in. 

Then trample and dance, thou^ 

Oppressor ! 
For thy victim is no redresser ; 
Thou art sole lord and possessor 
Of her corpses, and clods, and abor- 
tions—they pave 
Thy path to the grave. 

IV. 

nearest thou the festival din 
Of Death, and Destruction, >and Sin,i| 
And Wealth crying Havoc ! with- 1 
in ? 
'T is the bacchanal triumph which 
makes Truth dumb, 
Thine epithalamium. 



Ay, marry thy ghastly wife ! 
Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife 
Spread thy couch in the chamber 
of Life ! 
Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant, and God be 
thy guide 
To the bed of the bride ! 



SONG TO THE MEN OF ENG- 
LAND. 

Men of England, wherefore plough 
For the lords who lay ye low ? 
Wherefore weave with toil and care 
The rich robes your tyrants wear ? 



fragment: "what mek gain Fairly. 



301 



4V"herefore feed, and clothe, and save, 
?roni the cradle to the grave, 
Those ungrateful drones who would 
Drain your sweat — nay, drink your 
blood ? 

III. 

tVlierefore, Bees of England, forge 
Vlany a weapon, chain, and scourge, 
riiat these stingless drones may spoil 
The forced produce of your toil ? 



Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, 
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm ? 
3r what is it ye buy so dear 
tVith your pain and with your fear ? 



rhe seed ye sow, another reaps ; 
riie wealth ye find, anotlier keeps ; 
rhe robes ye weave, another wears ; 
rhe arms ye forge, another bears. 



30W seed, — but let no tyrant reap ; 
s'ind wealth, — let no impostor heap ; 
tVeave robes, — let not the idle wear ; 
^'orge arms, — in your defence to bear. 



Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells ; 

;n halls ye deck another dwells. 

Why shake the chains ye wrought ? 

Ye see 
rhe steel ye tempered glance on ye. 



With plough and spade, and hoe and 

loom, 
rrace your grave, and build your tomb, 
!V.nd weave your winding-sheet, till 

fair 
England be your sepulchre. 

SIMILES FOR TWO POLITICAL 
CHARACTERS OF 1818. 

(SIDMOUTII AND CASTLEREAGH. ) 



!ls from an ancestral oak 
Two empty ravens sound their 

clarion, 
YeW by yell, and croak by croak, 
fVhen they scent the noonday smoke 

Of fresh human carrion : — 



As two gibbering night-birds flit 

From their bowers of deadly yew 
Thro' the night to frighten it, 
When the moon is in a fit. 

And the stars are none, or few : — 

III. 

As a shark and dog-fish wait 

Under an Atlantic isle. 
For the negro-ship, whose freight 
Is the theme of their debate, 

Wrinkling their red gills the 
while — 



Are ye, two vultures, sick for battle, 
Two scorpions under one wet stone, 
Two bloodless wolves whose dry throats 

rattle. 
Two crows percht on the murrained 
cattle, 
Two vipers tangled into one. 

FRAGMENT : TO THE PEOPLE 
OF ENGLAND. 

People of England, ye who toil and 
groan. 

Who reap the harvests which are not 
your own. 

Who weave the clothes which your op- 
pressors wear. 

And for your own take the inclement 
air ; 

Who build warm houses . . . 

And are like gods who give them all 
they have. 

And nurse them from the cradle to the 
grave . . . 



FRAGMENT: "WHAT MEN GAIN 
FAIRLY." 

What men gain fairly — that they 
should possess. 

And children may inherit idleness. 

From him who earns it — This is under- 
stood : 

Private injustice maybe general good. 

But he who gains by base and armed 
wrong. 

Or guilty fraud, or base compliance!?. 

May be despoiled ; even as a stolen 
dress 

Is stript from a convicted thief, and 
he 

Left in the nakedness of infamy. 



392 



A NEW XATIONAL ANTHEM. 



A NEW NATIONAL ANTHEM. 



God prosper, speed, and save, 
God raise from England's grave 

Her murdered Queen ! 
Pave with swift victorj' 
The steps of I^iberty, 
Whom Britons own to be 

Immortal Queen. 

11. 

See, she comes throned on high, 
On swift Eternity ! 

God save the Queen ! 
Millions on millions wait 
Firm, rapid, and elate. 
On her majestic state ! 

God save the Queen ! 

III. 

She is thine own pure soul 
Moulding the mighty whole,— 

God save the Queen ! 
She is thine own deep love 
Rained down from heaven above. 
Wherever she rest or move, 

God save our Queen ! 



Wilder her enemies 

In their own dark disguise, — 

God save our Queen ! 
All earthly things that dare 
Her sacred name to bear, 
Strip them, as kings are, bare ; 

God save the Queen ! 



Be her eternal throne 
Built in our hearts alone — 

God save the Queen ! 
Let the oppressor hold 
Canopied seats of gold ; 
She sits enthroned of old 

O'er our hearts Queen. 



Lips toucht by seraphim 
Breathe out the choral hymn 

" God save the Queen ! " 
Sweet as if angels sang. 
Loud as that trumpet's clang 
Wakening the world's dead gang,- 

God save the Queen ! 



SONNET : ENGLAND IN 1819. 
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying 



king, 
Princess, the dregs of their dull race, 

who flow 
Thro' public scorn,— mud from a muddy 

spring,— 
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, noi 

know, 
But leech-like to their fainting country 

cling, 
Till they drop, blind in blood, without s 

blow,— 
A people starved and stabbed in the 

untitled field, 
An army, which liberticide and prey i 
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who 

wield i 

Golden and sanguine laws which tempi 

and slay ; 
Religion Christless, Godless— a bool* 

sealed ; 
A Senate, — Time's worst statute unre-t 

pealed, — 
Are graves, from which a gloriousi 

Phantom may 
Burst, to illumine our tempestuouai 

dav. 

k 

AN ODE : TO THE ASSERTORS 
OP LIBERTY. 

Arise, arise, arise ! 
There is blood on the earth that denief^ 
ye bread ; 

Be your wounds like eyes 
To weep for the dead, the dead, th( 

dead. 
What other grief were it just to pay 
Your sons, your wives, your brethren|, 

were they ; 
Who said they were slain on the batth 

day ? 

Awaken, awaken, awaken ! 
The slave and the tyrant are twin 
born foes ; 
Be the cold chains shaken 
To the dust where your kindred re 
po.se, repose : | 

Their bones in the grave will start an(| 
move, r 

When they hear the voices of thost||' 
they love, r 

Most loud in the holy combat above, f 



Wave, wave high the banner ! % 
When Freedom is riding to conques|, 

by : Df 



ODE TO HEAVEN. 



393 



Tho' the slaves tliat fan her 
Be Famine and Toil, giving sigh for 
' . sigh. 

nd ye who attend her imperial car, 
ift not. your hands in the banded war, 
lit in her defence whose children ye 

are. 

Glory, glory, glory, 
To those who have greatly suffered 
and done ! 
Never name in story 
iWas greater than that which ye 

shall have won. 
•nqnerors have conquered their foes 

alone, 
hose revenge, pride, and power they 

have overthrown : 
de ye, more victorious, over your 
own. 

Bind, bind every brow 
iVith crownals of violet, ivy, and 
pine. 
Hide the blood-stains now 
*Vith hues which sweet nature has 

made divine : 
een strength, azure hope, and eter- 
nity : 
t let not the pansy among them be ; 
were injured, and that means 
memory. 

CANCELLED STANZA. 

Gather, O gather, 
'oeman and friend in love and 

peace ! 
Waves sleep together 
7hen the blasts that called them 

to battle, cease. 
• fangless power grown tame and 

mild 
at play with Freedom's fearless 

child— 
i dove and the serpent reconciled ! 

ODE TO HEAVEN. 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 

First Spirit. 

iACE-ROOF of cloudless nights ! 

3,dise of golden lights ! 

eep, immeasurable, vast, 

ich art now, and which wert then 

f the present and the past, 

.he eternal where and when, 

:-esence-chamber, temple, home, 

ver-canopying dome, 

f acts and ages yet to come ! 



Glorious shapes have life in thee, 
Earth, and all earth's company ; 

Living globes which ever throng 
Thy deep chasms and wildernesses • 

And green worlds that glide along • 
And swift stars with flashing tresses • 

And icy moons most cold and bright" 

And mighty suns beyond the night, 

Atoms of intensest light. 

Even thy name is as a god,. 
Heaven ! for thou art the abode 

Of that power which is the glass 
Wherein man his nature sees. 

Generations as they pass 
Worship thee with bended knees. 

Their unremaining gods and they 

Like a river roll away : 

Thou remainest such alway. * 



Second Spirit. 

Thou art but the mind's first cham- 
ber. 

Round which its young fancies clam- 
ber. 
Like weak insects in a cave, 

Lighted up by stalactites ; 
But the portal of the grave. 

Where a world of new delights 
Will make thy best glories seem 
But a dim and noonday gleam 
From the shadow of a dream ! 

Third Spirit. 

Peace ! the abyss is wreathed with 

scorn 
At your presumption, atom-born ! 

What is heaven ? and what are ye 
Who its brief expanse inherit ? 
What are suns and spheres which 
flee 
With the instinct of that spirit 
Of which ye are but a part ? 
Drops which Nature's mighty heart 
Drives through thinnest veins ! De- 
part ! 



What is heaven ? a globe of dew, 

Pilling in the morning new 
Some eyed flower whose young leaves 
waken 

On an unimagined world : 
Constellatt'd suns unshaken. 

Orbits measureless, are furled 
In that frail and fading sphere. 
With ten millions gathered there, 
To tremble, gleam, and disappear. 



394 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 



ODE TO THE WEST AVIND.' 

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of 

Autumn's bein^^ 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the 

leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchant- 
er fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hec- 
tic red. 

Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O 
thou, 

Who chariotest to their dark wmtry 
bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold 

and low. 
Each like a corpse within its grave, 

until , „ 

Thine azure sister of the spring shall 

blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, 

and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed 

in air) 
With living hues and odors plain and 

hill : 

Wild Spirit, which art moving every- 
where ; 

Destroyer and preserver ; hear, O 
hear ! 

II. 

Thou on whose stream, mid the steep 

sky's commotion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying 

leaves are shed, 
Shook from the tangled boughs of 

Heaven and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning : there 
are spread 

iThis poem was conceived aiul chiefly 
written in a wood that sltirts the Arno, near 
Florence, and on a day wlieii that tempes- 
tuous wind, whose temperature is at once 
mild and aniinatinK, was collecting the va- 
pors which pour down the autumnal rains. 
They began, as I foresaw, at simset with 
a violent tempest of hail and rain, attended 
by that magnificent thunder and lightning 
peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. 

The phenomenon alluded to at the con- 
clusion of the third stanza is well known to 
naturalists. The vegetation at the bottom 
of the sea, of rivers, and of lakes, sympa- 
thizes with that of the land in the change 
of seasons, and is conseqtiently influenced 
by the winds which announce it. 



On the blue surface of thine airy surge 

Like the bright hair uplifted from th( 

head 



Of some fierce Maenad, even from th< 

dim verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height 
The locks of the approaching stone 

Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this clos 

ing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre 
Veiled with all thy congregated migh 

Of vapors, from whose solid atmos 

phere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail wr 

burst : O hear ! 



III. 
Thou who didst waken from his sunt 

mer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he laji 
Lulled by the coil of his crystallit 

streams, 

Beside a pumic isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towej 
Quivering within the wave's intenstj 
day, 

All overgrown with azure moss ar 

flowers 
So sweet, the sense faints pictunri 

them ! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's lev 

powers 



Cleave themselves into chasms, whlj 

far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy wooii 

which wear ! 

The sapless foliage of the ocean, kno:f 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gra 

with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselvfl 

O hear ! 



If I were a dead leaf thou mightel 

bear ; i 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with th&^ 

A wave to pant beneath thy powtJj 

and share j 

The impulse of thy strength, only kl 
free I 

Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If ev* 
1 were as in my boyhood, and could 



CANCELLED PASSAGE OF THE INDIAN SERENADE. 395 



le comrade of thy wanderings over 

heaven, 
s then, when to outstrip thy skyey 

speed 
>arce seemed a vision ; I would ne'er 

have striven 

,3 thus with thee in prayer in my sore 

need. 
1 lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
'all upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

heavy weight of hours has chained 

and bowed 
le too like thee : tameless, and swift, 

and proud. 



ike me thy lyre, even as the forest 

is : 
hat if my leaves are falling like its 

own ! 
le tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

ill take from both a deep autumnal 

tone, 
'■eet tho' in sadness. Be thou, spirit 
fierce, 
spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous 
one ! 

ive my dead thoughts over the uni- 
verse 

ce withered leaves to quicken a new 
birth ! 

d, by the incantation of this verse, 

Itter, as from an unextinguisht 

hearth 
hes and sparks, my words among 

mankind ! 
thro' my lips to unawakened earth 

e trumpet of a prophecy ! O, wind, 
"Winter comes, can Spring be far 
behind ? 



AN EXHORTATION. 

AMELEONS feed on light and air : 
*oets' food is love and fame : 
n this wide world of care 
'oets could but find the same 
th as little toil as they, 
Vould they ever change their hue 
lS the light chameleons do, 
ting it to every ray 
Twenty times a day ? 



Poets are on this cold hearth. 

As chameleons might be. 
Hidden from their earthly birth 

In a cave beneath the sea ; 
Where light is, chameleons change : 

Where love is not, poets do : 

Fame is love disguised : if few 
Find either never think it strange 
That poets range. 

Yet dare not stain with wealth or 
power 

A poet's free and heavenly mind : 
If bright chameleons should devour 

Any food but beams and wind, 
They would grow as earthly soon 

As their brother lizards are. 

Children of a sunnier star, 
Spirits from beyond the moon, 
Oh refuse the boon ! 



THE INDIAN SERENADE. 
I. 

I ARISE from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright : 
I arise from dreams of thee. 
And a spirit in mj' feet 
Hath led me — who knows how! 
To thy chamber window. Sweet ! 



The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream — 
And the champak odors fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint, 
It dies upon her heart ; — 
As I must on thine, 
Oh ! beloved as thou art ! 



Oh lift me from the grass ! 

I diet I faint! I fail! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 

My cheek is cold and white, alas! 

My heart beats loud and fast ; — 

Oh! press it to thine own again, 

Where it will break at last. 



CANCELLED PASSAGE ! OF THE 
INDIAN SERENADE. 

O PILLOW cold and wet with tears' 
Thou breathest sleep no more ! 



396 



TO SOPHIA [aIISS stagey], 



TO SOPHIA [MISS STAGE YJ. 



Thoit art fair, and few are fairer 
Of ttie nymphs of earth or ocean ; 

They are robes that fit the wearer— 
Those soft limbs of thine, whose mo- 
tion 

Ever falls and shifts and glances 

As the life within them dances. 



II. 

Thy deep eyes, a double Planet, 
Gaze the wisest into madness 
With soft clear fire,— the winds that 
fan it 
Are those thoughts of tender glad- 
ness 
Which, like Zephyrs on the billow, 
Make thy gentle soul their pillow. 



III. 

If, whatever face thou paintest 
In those eyes grows pale with pleas- 
ure, 
If the fainting soul is faintest 
When it hears thy harp's wild meas- 
ure, 
Wonder not that when thou speakest 
Of the weak my heart is weakest. 



IV. 

As dew beneath the wind of morning, 
As the sea which Whirlwinds waken, 

As the birds at thunder's warning. 
As aught mute yet deeply shaken. 

As one who feels an unseen spirit 

Is mine heart when thine is near it. 



TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. 

(With what truth I may say- 
Roma ! Roma 1 Roma ! 
Non 6 piCi come era prima !) 

I. 

My lost William, thou in whom 

Some bright spirit lived, and did 
That decaying robe consume 

Which its lustre faintly hid. 
Here its ashes find a tomb. 
But beneath this pyramid 
Thou art not— if a thing divine 
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine 
Is thy mother's grief and mine. 



Where art thou, my gentle child ! 

Let me think thy spirit feeds, j 

With its life intense and mild. 

The love of living leaves and weed' 
Among these tombs and ruins wild ;- 

Let me think that thro' low seeds 
Of sweet flowers and sunny grass. 
Into their hues and scents may pass 
A portion 

TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. 

Thy little footsteps on the sands 
Of a remote and lonely shore ; 

The twinkling of thine infant hands, 
Where now the worm will feed i 
more : 

Thy mingled look of love and glee 

When we returned to gaze on thee. 



TO MARY SHELLEY. 

My dearest Mary, wherefore hast tb 

gone. 
And left me in this dreary world alon 
Thy form is here indeed— a love 

one— 
But thou art fled, gone down the drea 

road. 
That leads to Sorrow's most obscr 

abode. 
Thou sittest on the hearth of pale < 

spair, 

Whe 
For thine own sake I cannot foll*^ 

thee. 



TO MARY^ SHELLEY. 

The world is dreary, 

And I am weary 
Of wandering on without thee, Mar 

A joy was erewhile I 

In thy voice and thy smile, ' 
And 't is gone, when I should be gc; 

too, Mary. i 

ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARI 
DA VINCI IN THE FLORENTIJ 
GALLERY. 



It lieth, gazing on the midnight skj 
Upon the cloudy mountain peak ' 
pine ; 

Below, far lands are seen tremblmg 
Its horror and its beauty I divine. 



THE BIRTH OF PLEASURE. 



397 



Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie 
Loveliness like a shadow, from which 
shine, 
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath. 
The agonies of anguish and of death. 

II. 

Yet it is less the horror than the grace 
Which turns the gazer's spirit into 

stone ; 
Whereon the lineaments of that dead 

face 
Are graven, till the characters be 

grown 
nto itself, and thought no more can 

trace ; 
'T is the melodious hue of beauty 

thrown 
^.thwart the darkness and the glare of 

pain, 
vVhich humanize and harmonize the 

strain. 

III. 

Vnd from its head as from one body 
grov/, 
As grass out of a watery rock, 
lairs which are vipers, and they curl 
and flow 
And their long tangles in each other 
lock, 
^nd with unending involutions show 
Their mailed radiance, as it were to 
mock 
?he torture and the death within, and 

saw 
.'he solid air with many a ragged jaw. 

IV. 

k.nd from a stone beside, a poisonous 

eft 
Peeps idly into those Gorgonian 

eyes ; 
Vhilst in the air a ghastly bat, bereft 
Of sense, has flitted with a mad sur- 
prise 
)ut of the cave this hideous light had 

cleft, 
And he comes hastening like a moth 

that hies 
L.fter a taper ; and the midnight sky 
'lares, a light more dread than ob- 
scurity. 

V. 

? is the tempestuous loveliness of ter- 
ror ; 
For from the serpents gleams a 
brazen glare 



Kindled by that inextricable error, 
Which makes a thrilling vapor of 

the air 
Become a and ever-shifting mirror 
Of all the beauty and the terror 

there — 
A woman's countenance, with serpent 

locks. 
Gazing in death on heaven from those 

wet rocks. 

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 



The Fountains mingle with the River 

And the Rivers with the Ocean, 
The winds of Heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single, • 

All things by a law divine 
In one spirit meet and mingle. 

Why not I with thine ?— 



See the mountains kiss high heaven 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister-flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother, 
And the sunlight clasps the earth 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea : 
What is all this sweet work worth 

If thou kiss not me ? 

FRAGMENT: "FOLLOW TO THE 
DEEP WOOD'S WEEDS." 

Follow to the deep wood's weeds. 
Follow to the wild briar dingle, 
Where we seek to intermingle. 
And the violet tells her tale 
To the odor-scented gale, 
For they ivro have enough to do 
Of such work as I and you. 

THE BIRTH OF PLEASURE. 

At the creation of the Earth 
Pleasure, that divinest birth. 
From the soil of Heaven did rise, 
Wrapt in sweet wild melodies- 
Like an exhalation wreathing 
To the sound of air low-breathing 
Thro' .^olian pines which make 
A shade and shelter to the lake 
Whence it rises soft and slow ; 
Her life-breathing [limbsj did flow 
In the harmony divine 
Of an ever-lengthening line 
Which en wrapt her perfect form 
With a beauty clear and warm, 



398 



FRAGMENT : LOVE THE UNIVERSE. 



FRAGMENT : LOVE 
UNIVERSE. 



THE 



Akd who feels discord now or sorrow ? 

Love is the universe to-day — 
These are the slaves of dim to-morrow, 

Darkening Life's labyrinthine way. 



FRAGMENT : "A GENTLE STORY 
OF TWO LOVERS YOUNG." 

A GENTLE story of two lovers yonng, 
Who met in innocence and died in 
sorrow, 
And of one selfish heart, whose rancor 
clung 
Like curses on them ; are ye slow to 
borrow, 
The lore of truth from such a tale ? 
Or in this world's deserted vale, 
Do ye not see a star of gladness 
Pierce the shadow of its sadness, 
When ye are cold, that love is a light 
sent 
From Heaven, which none shall 
quench, to cheer the innocent ? 



FRAGMENT : LOVE'S ATMOS- 
PHERE. 

There is a warm and gentle atmos- 
phere 
About the form of one we love, and 
thus 

As in a tender mist our spirits are 

Wrapt in the of that which is 

to us 

The health of life's own life. 



FRAGMENT : FELLOWSHIP OF 
SOULS. 

I AM as a spirit who has dwelt 
Within his heart of hearts, and I have 

felt 
His feelings, and have thought his 

thoughts, and known 
The inmost converse of his soul, the 

tone 
Unheard but in the silence of his blood. 
When all the pulses in their multitude 
Image the trembling calm of summer 

seas. 
I have unlockt the golden melodies 
Of his deep soul, as with a master- 
key, 
And loosened them and bathed myself 
therein- 



Even as an eagle in a thunder-mist 
Clothing his wings with lightning. 



FRAGMENT : REMINISCENCE ANI 
DESIRE. 

Is it that in some brighter sphere 
AVe part from friends we meet wit) 

here ? 
Or do we see the Future pass 
Over the Present's dusky glass ? 
Or what is that that makes us seem 
To patch up fragments of a dream. 
Part of which comes true, and part 
Beats and trembles in the heart ? 



FRAGMENT : FOREBODINGS. 

Is not to-day enough ? Why do I pee 
Into the darkness of the day to come 
Is not to-morrow even as yesterday ? 
And will the day that follows chang; 
thy doom ? 
Few flowers grow upon thy wintr 
way ; 
And who waits for thee in tht 
cheerless home 
Whence thou hast fled, whither thci 

must return 
Charged with the load that makes th( 
faint and mourn ? 



FRAGMENT : VISITATIONS OF] 
CALM THOUGHTS. 



Ye gentle visitations of calm thought 
Moods like the memories of happii 

earth, 
Which come arrayed in thoughts 
little worth. 
Like stars in clouds by the weak win' 
enwrought. 
But that the clouds deparfc and sta 
remain. 
While they remain, and ye, alas, d 
part ! 

FRAGMENT : POETRY AND 
MUSIC. 



How sweet it is to sit and read t; 
tales 

Of mighty poets and to hear ti 
while 
Sweet music, which when the atte 
tion fails 
Fills the dim pause- 



Is 



VAIIIATIOX OF THE LYRIC TO THE MOON. 



399 



RAGMENT : THE TOMB OF MEM- 
ORY. 
ND where is truth ? On tombs ? for 

such to thee 
as been my heart— and thy dead 

memory 
as lain from childliood, many a 

changeful year — 
nchangingly preserved and buried 

there. 

FRAGMENT : SONG OP THE 
FURIES. 



When a lover clasps his fairest, 
Then be our dread sport the rarest, 
Their caresses were like the chaff 
In the tempest, and be our laugli 
His despair— her epitaph ! 



When a mother clasps her child, 
Watch till dusty Death has piled 
His cold ashes on the clay ; 
She has loved it many a day — 
She remains,— it fades away. 

RAGMENT : " WAKE THE SER- 
PENT NOT." 
'"AKE the serpent not — lest he 
aould not know the way to go, — 
et him crawl which yet lies sleeping 
hro' the deep grass of the meadow ; 
ot a bee shall hear him creeping, 
ot a may-fly shall awaken 
rom its cradling blue-bell shaken, 
ot the starlight as he ' s sliding 
hi'o' the grass with silent gliding. 

RAGMENT : RAIN AND WIND. 

HE fitful alternations of the rain, 

''hen the chill wind, languid as with 
pain 

f its own heavy moisture, here and 
there 

rives thro' the gray and beamless at- 
mosphere. 

FRAGMENT : A TALE UNTOLD. 

NE sung of thee who left the tale un- 
told, 

Like the false dawns which perish in 
the bursting : 

ike empty cups of wrought and daedal 
gold, 

Which mock the lips with air, when 
they are thirsting. 



FRAGMENT : TO ITALY. 

As the sunrise to the night, 
As the north wind to the clouds. 

As the earthquake's fiery flight. 
Ruining mountain solitudes, 

Everlasting Italy, 

Be those hopes and fears on thee. 

FRAGMENT: WINE OF EGLAN- 
TINE. 

I AM drunk with the honey wine 
Of the noon-unfolded eglantine. 
Which fairies catch in hyacinth 

bowls : — 
The bats, the dormice, and the moles 
Sleep in the walls or under the sward 
Of the desolate Castle yard ; 
And when 't is spilt on the summer 

earth. 
Or its fumes arise among the dew. 
Their jocund dreams are full of mirth. 
They gibber their joy in sleep ; for 

few 
Of the fairies bear those bowls so 

new ! 



FRAGMENT 



A ROMAN'S CHAM- 
BER. 



In the cave which wild weeds cover 
Wait for thine ethereal lover ; 
For the pallid moon is waning, 

O'er the spiral cypress hanging. 
And the moon no cloud is staining. 

II. 

It was once a Roman chamber. 
Where he kept his darkest revels, 

And the wild weeds twine and 
clamber ; 
It was then a chasm for devils. 

FRAGMENT : ROME AND NATURE. 

Rome has fallen, ye see it lying 
Heapt in undistinguisht ruin ; 
Nature is alone undying. 

VARIATION OF THE LY^RIC TO 
THE MOON. 

{Promcthc^ts Unhound, Act iv.) 

As a violet's gentle eye 
Gazes on the azure sky 
Until its hue grows like what it be- 
holds ; 



400 



NOTP: by MRS. SHELLEY. 



As a gray and empty mist 
Lies like solid amethyst 
Over the western mountain it enfolds, 
When the sunset sleeps 
Upon its snow ; 
As a strain of sweetest sound 
Wraps itself the wind around 
Until the voiceless wind be music too ; 
As aught dark, vain, and dull, 
Basking in what is beautiful, 
Is full of light and love. 

181<1. 

NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

Shelley loved the People ; and re- 
spected them as often more virtuous, 
as always more suffering, and there- 
fore more deserving of sympathy, than 
the great. He believed that a clash 
between the two classes of society was 
inevitable, and he eagerly ranged him- 
self on the people's side. He had an 
idea of publishing a series of poems 
adapted expressly to commemorato 
their circumstances and wrongs. He 
wrote a few ; but, in those days of 
prosecution for libel, they could not be 
printed. They are not among the best 
of his productions, a writer being 
always shackled when he endeavors to 
write down to the comprehension of 
those who could not understand or feel 
a highly imaginative style ; but they 
show his earnestness, and with what 
heartfelt compassion he went home to 
the direct point of injury— that oppres- 
sion is detestable as being the parent 
of starvation, nakedness, and ignor- 
ance. Besides these outpourings of 
compassion and indignation, he had 
meant to adorn the cause he loved with 
loftier poetry of glory and triumph ; 
such is the scope of the " Ode to the 
Assertors of Liberty." He sketched 
also a new version of our national an- 
them, as addressed to Liberty. 

POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 

THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 

Part First. 

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew. 
And the young winds fed it with silver 

dew. 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the 

light. 
And closed them beneath the kisses ot 

night. 



And the Spring arose on the garde: 

fair. 
Like the Spirit of Love felt every 

where ; 
And each flower and herb on Earth 

dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintr, 

rest. 



But none ever trembled and panteii 
with bliss i 

In the garden, the field, or the wildei 
ness, 

Like a doe in the noontide with love'' 
sweet want. 

As the companionless Sensitive Plant 

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rai» ] 

wet. 
And their breath was mixt with fres 

odor, sent 
From the turf, like the voice and tb 

instrument. 



i 
Then the pied wind-flowers and th 

tulip tall. 
And narcissi, the fairest among thei 

all. 
Who gaze on their eyes in the streanu 

rccoss 
Till they die of their own dear lovel 

ness ; 

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale. 
Whom youth makes so fair and passic 

so pale, 
That the light of its tremulous bells i 

SGGll 

Thro' their pavilions of tender green 

And the hyacinth purple and white ai! 

blue, I 

Which flung from its bells a sweet pe. 

anew ' 

Of music so delicate, soft, and intens 
It was felt like an odor within tl 

sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bai 

addrest, 
Which unveiled the depth of her gloA 

ing breast, ' 

Till, fold after fold, to the fainting a 
The soul of her beauty and love l£| 

bare : 

And the wand-like lily, which lift«. 

up, ' 

As a Maenad, its moonlight-colonj 

cup, 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



401 



ill the fiery star, which is its eye, 
razed thro' clear dew on the tender 

sky ; 

ud the jessamine faint, and the sweet 

tuberose, 
ie sweetest flower for scent that 

blows ; 
nd all rare blossoms from every clime 
rew in that garden in perfect prime. 

nd on the stream whose inconstant 
bosom 

'as prankt under boughs of embower- 
ing blossom, 

'ith golden and green light, slanting 
thro' 

leir heaven of many a tangled hue. 

•oad water-lilies lay tremulously, 
nd starry river-buds glimmered by, 
nd around them the soft stream did 

glide and dance 
ith a motion of sweet sound and 

radiance. 

id the sinuous paths of lawn and of 

moss, 
hich led thro' the garden along and 

across, 
ime open at once to the sun and the 

breeze, 
'me lost among bowers of blossoming 

trees, 

ere all paved with daisies and del- 
icate bells 

3 fair as the fabulous asphodels, 

id flowrets which drooping as day 
droopt too 

ill into pavilions, white, purple, and 
blue, 

) roof the glow-worm from the eve- 
ning dew. 

id from this undefiled Paradise 

le flowers (as an infant's awakening 

eyes 
lile on its mother, whose singing 

sweet 
\.n first lull, and at last miist awaken 

it), 

hen Heaven's blithe winds had un- 
folded them, 

1 mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 

one smiling to Heaven, and every 
one 

ared joy in the light of the gentle 
sun ; 
26 



For each one was interpenetrated 

With the light and the odor its neigh- 
bor shed, 

Like young lovers whom youth and love 
make dear 

Wrapt and filled by their mutual at- 
mosphere. 

But the Sensitive Plant which could 
give small fruit 

Of the love which it felt from the leaf 
to the root. 

Received more than all, it loved more 
than ever, 

Where none wanted but it, could be- 
long to the giver. 

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright 
flower ; 

Radiance and odor are not its dower ; 

It loves, even like Love, its deep heart 
is full. 

It desires what it has not, the beauti- 
ful ! 

The light winds which from unsustain- 

ing wings 
Shed the music of many murmurings ; 
The beams which dart from many a 

star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear 

afar ; 

The plumed insects swift and free. 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea. 
Laden with light and odor, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass ; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, which 

lie 
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides 

high, 
Then wander like spirits among the 

spheres. 
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it 

bears ; 

The quivering vapors of dim noontide, 
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth 

glide. 
In which every sound, and odor, and 

beam. 
Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 

Each and all like ministering angels 

were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to 

bear. 
Whilst the lagging hours of the day 

went by 
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 



402 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



And when evening descended from 

heaven above, 
And the Earth was all rest, and the 

air was all love, 
And delight, tho' less bright, was far 

more deep 
And the day's veil fell from the world 
. of sleep, 

And the beasts, and the birds, and the 
insects were drowned 

In an ocean of dreams without a sound ; 

"Whose waves never mark, tho' they 
ever impress 

The light sand which paves it, con- 
sciousness ; 

(Only overhead the sweet nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as the day might 

fail. 
And snatches of its Elysian chant 
Were mixed with the dreams of the 

Sensitive Plant. ) 

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest ; 
A sweet child weary of its delight, 
The feeblest and yet the favorite. 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 

PART Second. 

There was a Power Iti this sweet place. 
An Eve in this Eden ; a ruling grace 
Which to the flowers did they waken 

or dream. 
Was as God is to the starry scheme. 

A Lady, the wonder of her kind. 
Whose form was upborne by a lovely 

mind 
Which, dilating, had moulded her mien 

and motion 
Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the 

ocean. 

Tended the garden from morn to even : 
And the meteors of that sublunar 

heaven, . 

Like the lamps of the air when night 

walks forth, 
Laught round her footsteps up from 

the Earth ! 

She had no companion of mortal race. 
But her tremulous breath and her 

flushing face 
Told, whilst the morn kist the sleep 

from her eyes. 
That her dreams were less slumber 

than Paradise : 



As if some bright Spirit for her swe 

Had deserted heaven while the sta 

were asvake. 
As if yet around her he lingering wer 
Tho' the veil of daylight concealed hi 

from her. 

Her step seemed to pity the grass 

prest ; 
You might hear by the heaving of h 

That the coming and going of the wii 
Brought pleasure there and left p< 
sion behind. 

And wherever her airy footsteps trc 
Her trailing hair from the grassy so( 
Erased its light vestige, with shadov 

sweep. 
Like a sunny storm o'er the dark gre 

deep. 

I doubt not the flowers of that gard 

sweet 
Rejoiced in the sound of her gen1 

feet ; 
I doubt not they felt the spirit tti 

came 
From her glowing fingers thro' all thi 

frame. 

She sprinkled bright water from t 

stream 
On those that were faint witli t 

sunny beam ; 
And out of the cups of tlie hea 

flowers 
She emptied the rain of the thunc 

showers. 

She lifted their heads with her tenc 

hands. 
And sustained them with, rods a 

osier bands ; 
If the flowers had been her own infai 

she 
Could never have nurst them mc 

tenderly. 

And all killing insects and gnawi 

worms, 
And things of obscene and unlov^ 

forms. 
She bore in a basket of Indian woot 
Into the rough woods far aloof. 

In a basket, of grasses and wild-flow 

The freshest her gentle hands co 
pull 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



403 



For the poor banisht insects, whose 

intent, 
iAltho' they did ill, was innocent. 

But the bee and the beamlike ephem- 

Whose path is the lightning's, and soft 

moths that kiss 
The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm 

- not, did she 
Make her attendant angels be. 

And many an antenatal tomb. 
Where butterflies dream of the life to 

come, 
She left clinging round the smooth and 

dark 
Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 

This fairest creature from earliest 
spring 

Thus moved thro' the garden mmis- 
tering 

All the sweet season of summer tide, 

And ere the first leaf looked brown- 
she died ! 



PART Third. 

Three days the flowers of the garden 

fair. 
Like stars when the moon is awakened, 

were, 
Or the waves of Baise, ere luminous 
She floats up thro' the smoke of 

Vesuvius. 

And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
Felt the sound of the funeral chant. 
And the steps of the bearers, heavy 

and slow. 
And the sobs of the mourners deep 

and low ; 

The weary sound and the heavy breath. 
And the silent motions of passing 

death, 
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and 

dank. 
Sent thro' the pores of the coffin 

plank ; 

The dark grass, and the flowers among 

the grass, 
Were bright with tears as the crowd 

did pass ; 
From their sighs the wind caught a 

mournful tone. 
And sate in the puies, and gave groan 

for groan. 



The garden, once fair, became cold and 

foul, 
Like the corpse of her who had been 

its soul, 
Which at first was lovely as if in sleep. 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
To make men tremble who never weep. 

Swift summer into the autumn flowed. 
And frost in the mist of the morning 

rode, 
Tho' the noonday sun looked clear and 

bright. 
Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 

The rose leaves, like flakes of crimson 

snow. 
Paved the turf and the moss below. 
The lilies were drooping, and white, 

and wan, 
Like the head and the skin of a dying 

man. 

And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
The sweetest that ever were fed on 

dew. 
Leaf by leaf, day after day. 
Were massed into the common clay. 

And the leaves, brown, yellow, and 

gray, and red, 
And white with the whiteness of what 

is dead. 
Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind 

past ; 
Their whistling noise made the birds 

aghast. 

And the gusty winds waked the winged 

seeds. 
Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds, 
Till they clung round many a sweet 

flower's stem. 
Which rotted into the earth with 

them. 

The water-blooms under the rivulet 
Fell from the stalks on which they 

were set ; 
And the eddies drove them here and 

there. 
As the winds did those of the upper 

air. 

Then the rain come down, and the 

broken stalks, 
Were bent and tangled across the 

walks ; 
And the leafless network of parasite 

bowers 
Massed into ruin ; and all sweet 

flowers. 



404 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



Between the time of the wind and the 

snow, 
All loathliest weeds began to grow, 
Whose coarse leaves were splasht with 

many a speck, 
Like the water-snake's belly and the 

toad's back. 

And thistles, and nettles, and darnels 
rank, 

And the dock, and henbane, and hem- 
lock dank, 

Stretcht out its long and hollow shank, 

And stifled the air till the dead wind 
stank. 

And plants at whose names the verse 

feels loath. 
Filled the place with a monstrous 

undergrowth, 
Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, 

and blue. 
Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. 

And agarics and fungi, with mildew 
and mould 

Started like mist from the wet ground 
cold ; 

Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead 

With a spirit of growth had been ani- 
mated ! 

Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous 

.scum. 
Made the running rivulet thick and 

dumb. 
And at its outlet flags huge as stakes 
Dammed it up with roots knotted like 

water-snakes. 

And hour by hour, when the air was 

still. 
The vapors arose which have strength 

to kill : 
At morn they were seen, at noon they 

were felt. 
At night they were darkness no star 

could melt.. 

And unctuous meteors from spray to 

spray 
Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
Unseen : every branch on which they 

alit 
By a venomous blight was burned and 

bit. 

The Sensitive Plant like one forbid 
Wept, and the tears within each lid 
Of its folded leaves which together 

grew 
Were changed to a blight of frozen 

glue. 



For the leaves soon feU, and the 

branches soon 
By the heavy axe of the blast were , 

hewn ; 
The sap shrank to the root thro' every 

pore. 
As blood to a heart that will beat no 

more. 

For winter came : the wind was his 
whip : 

One choppy finger was on his lip : 

He had torn the cataracts from the 
hills 

And they clankt at his girdle like man- 
acles ; 

His breath was a chain which without 
a sound 

The earth, and the air, and the water 
bound ; 

He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot- 
throne 

By the tenfold blasts of the Arctic 
zone. 

Then the weeds which were forms of 
living death 

Fled from the frost to the earth be- 
neath. 

Their decay and sudden flight from 
frost 

Was but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 

And under the roots of the Sensitive 

Plant 
The moles and the dormice died for 

want ; 
The birds dropt stiff from the frozen 

air 
And were caught in the branches 

naked and bare. 

First there came down a thawing rain 
And its dull drops froze on the boughs 

again, 
Then there steamed up a freezing dew 
Which to the drops of the thaw-rain 

grew ; 

And a northern whirlwind, wandering 

about 
Like a- wolf that had smelt a dead 

child out. 
Shook the boughs thus laden, and 

heavy and stiff, 
And snapt them off with his rigid griff. 

When winter had gone and spring 

came back 
The Sensitive Plant was a leafless 

wreck ; 



A VISION OF THE SEA. 



405 



it the mandrakes, and toadstools, 

and docks, and darnels, 
jso like the deail from their ruined 

charnels. 



Conclusion. 

'hether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
'hich within its boughs like a spirit 

re its outward form had known de- 
cay, 
ow felt this change, I cannot say. 

Whether that lady's gentle mind, 
o longer with the form combined 
rhich scattered love, as stars do light, 
ound sadness, where it left delight, 

dare not guess ; but in this life 
if error, ignorance, and strife, 
v^here nothing is, but all things seem, 
Aid we the shadows of the dream, 

t is a modest creed, and yet 
'leasant if one considers it, 
'o own that death itself must be, 
iike all the rest, a mockery. 

'hat garden sweet, that lady fair, 
\.nd all sweet shapes and odors there, 
n truth have never past away : 
r is we, 't is ours, are changed ; not 
they. 

^or love and beauty and delight, 
There is no death nor change : their 

might 
fixceeds our organs, which endure 
Mo light, being themselves obscure. 

CANCELLED PASSAGE. 

Their moss rotted off them, flake by 

flake 
Till the thick stalk stuck like a mur- 

Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble 

on high, 
Infecting the winds that wander by. 

A VISION OF THE SEA. 

'T IS the terror of tempest. The rags 

of the sail 
Are flickering in ribbons within the 

fierce gale ; 
From the stark night of vapors the 

dim rain is driven, 
And when lightning is loost, like a 

deluge from heaven, 



She sees the black trunks of the water- 
spouts spin. 
And bend, as if heaven was ruining 

in, 
Which they seemed to sustain with 

their terrible mass 
As if ocean had sunk from beneath 

them : they pass 
To their graves in the deep with an 

earthquake of sound, 
And the waves and the thunders made 

silent around 
Leave the wind to its echo. The ves- 
sel, now tost 
Thro' the low-trailing rack of the tem- 
pest, is lost 
In the skirts of the thunder-cloud : now 

down the sweep 
Of the wind-cloven wave to the chasm 

of the deep 
It sinks, and the walls of the watery 

vale 
Whose depths of dread calm are un- 
moved by the gale. 
Dim mirrors of ruin hang gleaming 

about ; 
While the surf, like a chaos of stars, 

like a rout 
Of death-flames, like whirlpools of flre- 

flowing iron 
With splendor and terror the black 

ship environ. 
Or like sulphur-flakes hurled from a 

mine of pale fire 
In fountains spout o'er it. In many a 

spire 
The pyramid-billows with white points 

of brine 
In the cope of the lightning incon- 
stantly shine, 
As piercing the sky from the floor of 

the sea. 
The great ship seems splitting ! it 

cracks as a tree. 
While an earthquake is splintering its 

root, ere the blast 
Of the whirlwind that stript it of 

branches has past. 
The intense thunder-balls which are 

raining from heaven 
Have shattered its mast, and it stands 

black and riven. 
The chinks suck destruction. The 

heavv dead hulk 
On the living sea rolls an inanimate 

bulk, 
Like a corpse on the clay which is hun- 
gering to fold 
Its corruption around it. Meanwhile, 

from the hold. 
One deck is burst up by the waters be- 
low, 



40G 



A VISION OF THE SEA. 



And it splits like the ice when the 

thaw-breezes blow 
O'er the lakes of the desert ! Who sit 

on the other ? 
Is that all the crew that lie burying 

each other, 
Like the dead in a breach, round the 

foremast ? Are those 
Twin tigers, Avho burst, when the 

waters arose, 
In the agony of terror, their chains in 

the hold ; 
(What now makes them tame, is what 

then made them bold ; ) 
Who crouch, side by side, and have 

driven, like a crank. 
The deep grip of their claws thro' the 

vibrating plank. 
Are these all P Nine weeks the tall ves- 
sel had lain 
On the windless expanse of the watery 

plain, 
Where the death-darting sun cast no 

shadow at noon. 
And there seemed to be fire in the 

beams of the moon, 
Till a lead-colored fog gathered up 

from the deep 
Whose breath was quick pestilence ; 

then, the cold sleep 
Crept, like blight thro' the ears of a 

thick field of corn. 
O'er the populous vessel. And even 

and morn. 
With their hammocks for coffins the 

seamen aghast 
Like dead men the dead limbs of their 

comrades cast 
Down the deep, which closed on them 

above and around, 
And the sharks and the dog-fish their 

grave-clothes unbound, 
And were glutted like Jews with this 

manna rained down 
From God on their wilderness. One 

after one 
The mariners died ; on the eve of this 

day. 
When the tempest was gathering in 

cloudy array, 
But seven remained. Six the thunder 

has !>mitten, 
And they lie black as mummies on 

which Time has written 
His scorn of the embalmer ; the 

seventh, from the deck 
An oak-splinter pierced thro' his breast 

and his back, 
And hung out to the tempest, a wreck 

on the wreck. 
No more ? At the helm sits a woman 

more fair 



Than heaven, when, unbinding its 

star-braided hair. 
It sinks with the sun on the earth and' 

the sea. 
She clasps a bright child on her upgath* 

ered knee, 
It laughs at the lightning, it mocks the 

mixed thunder 
Of the air and the sea, with desire and 

with wonder 
It is beckoning the tigers to rise and 

come near, 
It would play with those eyes where 

the radiance of fear 
Is outshining the meteors ; its bosom 

beats high. 
The heart-fire of pleasure has kindledj 

its eye ; 
While its mother's is lustreless.- 

" Smile not, my child. 
But sleep deeply and sweetly, and so 

be beguiled 
Of the pang that awaits us, whatever 

that be. 
So dreadful since thou must divide it 

with me ! 
Dream, sleep ! This pale bosom thy: 

cradle and bed. 
Will it rock thee not, infant ? 'T is 

beating with dread ! 
Alas ! what is life, what is death, what 

are we, 
That when the ship sinks we no longer 

may be ? 
What ! to see thee no more, and to feel [ 

thee no more ? 
To be after life what we have been be- 
fore ? 
Not to touch those sweet hands ? Not ;' 

to look on those eyes. 
Those lips, and that hair, all the smil- 
ing disguise 
Thou yet wearest, sweet spirit, which 

I, day by day, 
Have so long called my child, but which 

now fades away 
Like a rainbow, and I the fallen show- 
er ?" Lo ! tlie ship 
Is settling, it topples, the leeward ports 

dip ; 
The tigers leap iip when they feel the 

slow brine 
Crawling inch by inch on them, hair, 

ears, limbs, and eyne, 
Stand rigid with horror ; a loud, long, 

hoarse cry 
Bursts at once from their vitals tre- 
mendously, 
And 't is borne down the mountainous 

vale of the wave, 
Rebounding, like thvinder, from crag 

to cave, 



A VISION OF THE SEA. 



4o; 



Mixt with the clash of the lashing 
rain, 

Hurried on by the might of the hurri- 
cane : 

The hurricane came from the west, 
and past on 

[By the path of the gate of the eastern 

f sun, 

I Transversely dividing the stream of 
the storm ; 

As an arrowy serpent, pursuing the 
form 

Of an elephant, bursts thro' the brakes 
of the waste. 

Black as a cormorant the screaming 
blast, 

Between ocean and heaven, like an 
ocean, past. 

Till it came to the clouds on the verge 
of the world 

Which, based on the sea and to heaven 
upcurled. 

Like columns and walls did surround 
and sustain 

The dome of the tempest ; it rent them 
in twain. 

As a flood rends its barriers of moun- 
tainous crag : 

And the dense clouds in many a ruin 
and rag. 

Like the stones of a temple ere earth- 
quake has past. 

Like the dust of its fall, on the whirl- 
wind are cast ; 

They are scattered like foam on the tor- 
rent ; and where 

The wind has burst out from the chasm, 
from the air 

Of clear morning, the beams of the 
sunrise flow in, 

Unimpeded, keen, golden, and crystal- 
line, 

Banded armies of light and of air ; at 
one gate 

They encounter, but interpenetrate. 

And that breach in the tempest is 
widening away, 

And the caverns of cloud are torn up 
by the day, 

And the fierce winds are sinking with 
weary wings 

Lulled by the motion and murmurings. 

And the long glassy heave of the rock- 
ing sea. 

And overhead glorious, but dreadful to 
see 

The wrecks of the tempest, like vapors 
of gold, 

Are consuming in sunrise. The heapt 
waves behold 

The deep calm of blue heaven dilating 
above, 



And, like passions made still by the 
presence of Love, 

Beneath the clear surface reflecting it 
slide 

Tremulous with soft influence ; extend- 
ing its tide 

From the Andes to Atlas, round moun- 
tain and isle. 

Round sea-birds and wrecks, paved 
with heaven's azure smile, 

The wide world of waters is vibrating. 
Where 

Is the ship ? On the verge of the wave 
where it lay 

One tiger is mingled in ghastly affray 

With a sea-snake. The foam and the 
smoke of the battle 

Stain the clear air with sunbows ; the 
jar, and the rattle 

Of solid bones crusht by the infinite 
sti ess 

Of the snake's adamantine voluminous- 
ness ; 

And the hum of the hot blood that 
spouts and rains 

Where the gripe of the tiger has 
wounded the veins, 

Swollen with rage, strength, and 
effort ; the whirl and the splash 

As of some hideous engine whose bra- 
zen teeth smash 

The thin winds and soft waves into 
thunder ; the screams 

And hissings crawl fast o'er the smooth 
ocean streams. 

Each sound like a centipede. Near this 
commotion, 

A blue shark is hanging within the blue 
ocean. 

The fin-winged tomb of the victor. 
The other 

Is winning his way from the fate of his 
brother, 

To his own with the speed of despair. 
Lo ! a boat 

Advances ; twelve rowers with the im- 
pulse of thought 

Urge on the keen keel, the brine foams. 
At the stern 

Three marksmen stand levelling. Hot 
bullets burn 

In the breast of the tiger, which yet 
bears him on 

To his refuge and ruin. One fragment 
alone, 

'T is dwindling and sinking, 't is now 
almost gone. 

Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of 
the sea. [ously. 

With her left hand she grasps it nnpetu- 

With her right she sustains her fair in- 
fant. Death, Fear, 



408 



THE CLOUD. 



Love, Beauty, are mixt in the atmos- 
phere ; 

Which trembles and burns with the 
fever of dread 

Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, 
and her head, 

Like a meteor of light o'er the waters ! 
her child 

Is yet smiling, and playing, and mur- 
muring ; so smiled 

The false deep ere the storm. Like a 
sister and brother 

The child and the ocean still smile on 
each other, 

Whilst 

THE CLOUD. 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirst- 
ing flowers, 
From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade far the leaves when 
laid 
In their noon-day dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews 
that waken 
The sweet buds every one, 
When rockt to rest on their mother's 
breast, 
As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain. 
And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains be- 
low. 
And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 't is my pillow white, 
While I sleep in the arms of the 
blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey 
bowers. 
Lightning my pilot sits. 
In a cavern under is fettered the thun- 
der 
It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle 
motion, 
This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that 
move 
In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the 
hills. 
Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain 
or stream. 
The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's 
blue smile, 
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 



The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor 
eyes. 
And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
When the morning star sliines,i 
dead 
As on the jag of a mountain crag. 
Which an earthquake rocks and 
swings. 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from 
the lit sea beneath. 
Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
From the depths of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy 
nest. 
As still as a brooding dove. 



That orbed maiden with white fire 
laden. 
Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like 
floor. 
By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen 
feet. 
Which only the angels hear. 
May have broken the woof of my tent's 
thin roof. 
The stars peep behind her and 
peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind- 
built tent. 
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen thro' me 
on high. 
Are each paved with the moon and 
these. 



I bind the sun's throne with a burning 
zone, [pearl ; 

And the moon's with a girdle of 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars 
reel and swim. 
When the whirlwinds my banner 
unfurl. 
From cape to cape with a bridge-like 
shape. 
Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 
The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch thro which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained 
to my chair, 
Is the million-colored bow ; 



TO A SKYI.AKK. 



40!) 



The sphere-fire above its soft colors 
wove, 
While the moist earth was laugh- 
ing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass thro' the pores of the ocean and 
shores ; 
I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain when with never a 
stain. 
The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams with 
their convex gleams, 
Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a 
ghost from the tomb, 
I arise and unbuild it again. 

TO A SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated 
art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 
The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring 
ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightning, 
Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is 
just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven. 
In the bi'oad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy 
shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, — we feel that it is 
there. 

All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud. 



As, when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and 
heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow 
not 
Drops so bright to see. 
As from thy presence showers a rain 
of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it 
heeded not ; 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace-tower. 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which over- 
flows her bower : 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which 
screen it from the view : 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too miich sweet these 
heavy-winged thieves : 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass. 
Rain-awakened flowers. 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music 
doth surpass : 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so 
divine. 

Chorus Hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chant, 
Matched with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein we feel there is some 
hidden want. 



410 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 



What object are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields, or waves, or moun- 
tains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what 
ignorance of pain ? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest : but ne'er knew love's 
sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep. 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how coulil thy notes flow in such a 
crj'stal stream ? 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell 
of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should 
come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of 
the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am 
listening now. 

ODE TO LIBERTY. 

Yet, Freedom, yet thy banner torn but fly- 
ing. 
Streams like a thunder storm against the 
wind. 

Byron. 
I. 

A GLORIOUS people vibrated again 
The lightning of the nations : 

Liberty 
From heart to heart, from tower to 

tower, o'er Spain, 



Scattering contagious fire into the 
sky. 
Gleamed. My soul spurned the chains 
of its dismay. 
And, in the rapid plumes of 

song. 
Clothed itself, sublime and 
strong ; 
As a young eagle soars the morning, 
clouds among, 
Hovering in verse o'er its accus- 
tomed prey ; 
Till from its station in the heaven 
of fame 
The Spirit's whirlwind* rapt it, and 
the I'ay 
Of the remotest sphere of livingi 
flame 
Which paves the void was from behind 
it flung. 
As foam from a ship's swiftness,- 

when there came 
A voice out of the ^deep : I will re- 
cord the same. 



II. 

The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang; 
forth : 
The burning stars of the abyss were 
hurled 
Into the depths of heaven. The daedal 
earth. 

That island in the ocean of the world,! 
Hung in its cloud of all-su.staining air 
But this divinest universe 
W as yet a chaos and a curse, 
For thou wert not ; but power fromi 
worst producing worse. 
The spirit of the beasts was kindled' 
there. 
And of the birds, and of the watery 
forms. 
And there was war among them, and 
despair 
Within them, raging without truce 
or terms ; 
The bosom of their violated nurse 
Groaned, for beasts warred on beasts, 

and worms on worms. 
And men on men ; each heart was as 
a hell of storms. 

III. 

Man, the imperial shape, then multi-' 
plied 
His generations under the pavilion 
Of the sun's throne : palace and pyra-i 
mid, 
Temple and prison, to many a swarm- 
ing million, 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 



411 



Were, as to mountain-wolves their 
ragged caves. 
This human living multitude 
Was savage, cunning, blind, and 
rude, 
For thou wert not ; but o'er the popu- 
lous solitude, 
Like one fierce cloud over a waste of 
waves 
Hung Tyranny ; beneath, sate dei- 
fied 
The sister-pest, congregator of 
slaves ; 
Into the shadow of her pinions 
wide 
Anarchs and priests who fled on gold 
and blood. 
Till with the stain their inmost souls 

are dyed, 
Drove the astonished herds of men 
from every side. 



The nodding promontories, and blue 
isles. 
And cloud-like mountains, and 
dividuous waves 
Of Greece, baskt glox'ious in the open 
smiles 
Of favoring heaven : from their en- 
chanted caves 
Prophetic echoes flung dim melody. 
On the unapprehensive wild 
The vine, the corn, the olive 
mild, 
Grow savage yet, to human use unrec- 
onciled ; 
And, like unfolded flowers beneath 
the sea, 
Like the man's thought dark in the 
infant's brain. 
Like aught that is which wraps what 
is to be. 
Art's deathless dreams lay veiled 
by many a vein 
Of Parian stone ; and yet a speechless 
child, 
Verse murmured, and Philosophy 

did strain 
Her lidless eyes for thee ; when o'er 
the ^gean main 



Athens arose : a city sucli as vision 
Builds from the purple crags and sil- 
ver towers 
Of battlemented cloud, as in derision 
Of kingliest masonry : the ocean- 
floors 



Pave it ; the evening sky pavilions it ; 
Its portals are inhabited 
By thunder-zoned winds, each 
head 
Within its cloudy wings with sunfire 
garlanded, 
A divine work ! Athens diviner yet 
Gleamed with its crest of columns, 
on the will 
Of man, as on a mount of diamond, 
set ; 
For thou wert, and thine all-cre- 
ative skill 
Peopled with forms that mock the 
eternal dead 
In marble immortality, that hill 
Which was thine earliest throne and 
latest oracle. 



Within the surface of Time's fleeting 
river 
Its wrinkled linage lies, as then it lay 
Immovably unqiiiet, and for ever 

It trembles, but it cannot pass away ! 
The voices of thy bards and sages 
thunder 
With an earth-awakening blast 
Thro' the caverns of the past ; 
Religion veils her eyes : Oppression 
shrinks aghast : 
A winged sound of joy, and love, and 
wonder, 
Which soars where Expectation 
never flew. 
Rending the veil of space and time 
asunder ! 
One ocean feeds the clouds, and 
streams, and dew ; 
One sun illumines heaven ; one spirit 
vast 
With life and love makes chaos ever 

new. 
As Athens doth the world with tl ;7 
delight renew. 

VII. 

Then Rome was, and from thy deep 
bosom fairest, 
Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmsean 
Maenad, 
She drew the milk of greatness, tho' 
thy dearest 
From that Elysian food was yet un- 
weaned ; 
And many a deed of terrible upright- 
ness 
By thy sweet love was sanctified ; 
And 'in thy smile, and by thy 
side, 



412 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 



Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius 
died. 
But when tears stained thy robe of 
vestal whiteness, 
And gold profaned thy Capitolian 
throne. 
Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged 
lightness, 
The senate of the tyrants : they 
sunk prone 
Slaves of one tyrant : Palatinus sighed 
Faint echoes of Ionian song ; that 

tone 
Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting 
to disown. 



From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen 
hill. 
Or piny promontory of the Arctic 
main, 
Or utmost islet inaccessible. 
Didst thou lament the ruin of thy 
reign. 
Teaching the woods and waves, and 
desert rocks. 
And every Naiad's ice-cold urn. 
To talk in echoes sad and stern, 
Of that sublimest lore which man had 
dared unlearn ? 
For neither didst thou watch the 
wizard Hocks 
Of tlic Scald's dreams, nor haunt 
the Druid's sleep. 
What if the tears rained thro' thy 
shattered locks 
"Were quickly dried ? for thou didst 
groan, not weep 
When from its sea of death to kill and 
burn, 
The Galilean serpent forth did creep. 
And made thy world an undistinguish- 
able heap. 



IX. 

A thousand years the Earth cried. 
Where art thou ? 
And then the shadow of thy coming 
fell 
On Saxon Alfred's olive-cinctured 
brow : 
And many a warrior-peopled citadel. 
Like rocks which fire lifts out of the 
flat deep. 
Arose in sacred Italy, 
Frowning o'er the tempestuous 
sea 
Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in 
^wer-crowned majesty ; 



That multitudinous anarchy did 
sweep, 
And burst around their walls, like 
idle foam. 
Whilst from the human spirit's deep- 
est deep 
Strange melody with love and awe 
struck dumb 
Dissonant arms ; and Art, which can- 
not die. 
With divine wand traced on our 

earthly home 
Fit imagery to pave heaven's ever- 
lasting dome. 

X. 

Thou huntress swifter than the Moon ! 
thou terror 
Of the world's wolves ! thou bearer 
of the quiver, 
Whose sunlike shafts pierce tempest- 
winged Error, 
As light may pierce the clouds when 
they dis'sever 
In the calm regions of the orient day ! 
Luther caught thy wakening 

glance ; 
Like lightning, from his leaden 
lance 
Reflected, it dissolved the visions of 
the trance 
In which, as in a tomb, the nations 
lay ; 
And England's prophets hailed 
thee as their queen, 
In songs whose music cannot pass 
away, 
Tho' it must flow for ever : not 
unseen 
Before the spirit-lighted countenance 
Of Milton didst thou pass, from the 

sad scene 
Beyond whose night he saw, with a 
dejected mien. 

XI. 

The eager hours and unreluctant 
years 
As on a dawn-illumined mountain 
stood. 
Trampling to silence their loud hopes 
and fears. 
Darkening each other with their 
multitude. 
And cried aloud. Liberty ! Indignation 
Answered Pity from her cave ; 
Death grew pale within the 
grave. 
And Desolation howled to the des- 
troyer, Save ! 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 



413 



When like heaven's sun girt by the 
exhalation 
Of its own glorious light, thou 
didst arise, 
Chasing thy foes from nation unto 
nation 
Like shadows : as if day had cloven 
the skies 
^t dreaming midnight o'er the western 
wave, 
Men started, staggering with a glad 

surprise, 
Under the lightnings of thine un- 
familiar eyes. 



Thou heaven of earth ! what spells 
pall thee then, 
In ominous eclipse ? a thousand years 
Bred from the slime of deep oppres- 
sion's den, 
Dyed all thy liquid light with blood 
and tears, 
rill thy sweet stars could weep the 
stain away ; 
How like Bacchanals of blood 
Round France, the ghastly vin- 
tage, stood 
Destruction's sceptred slaves, and 
Folly's mitred brood ! 
When one, like them, but mightier 
far than they. 
The Anarch of thine own be- 
wildered powers 
Rose : armies mingled in obscure 
array. 
Like clouds with clouds, darkening 
the sacred bowers 
Of serene heaven. He, by the past 
pursued. 
Rests with those dead, but unfor- 

gotten hours. 
Whose ghosts scare victor kings in 
their ancestral towers. 

XIII. 

England yet sleeps : was she not 
called of old ? 
Spain calls her now, as with its 
thrilling thunder 
Vesuvius wakens ^tna, and the cold 
Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in 
sunder : 
O'er the lit waves every ^olian isle 
From Pithecusa to Pelorus, 
Howls, and leaps, and glares in 
chorus : 
They cry, Be dim : ye lamps of heaven 
.suspended o'er us. 
Her chains are threads of gold, she 
need but smile 



And they dissolve ; but Spain's 

were links of steel. 
Till bit to dust by virtue's keenest 

file. 
Twins of a single destiny ! appeal 
To the eternal years enthroned before 

us, 
In the dim West ; impress us from 

a seal. 
All ye have thought and done ! 

Time cannot dare conceal. 



Tomb of Arminius ! render up thy 
dead. 
Till, like a standard from a watch- 
tower's staff. 
His soul may stream over the tyrant's 
head ; 
Thy victory shall be his epitaph, 
Wild Bacchanal of truth's mysterious 
wine, 
King-deluded Germany, 
His dead spirit lives in thee. 
Why do we fear or hope ? thou art 
rilrGtidv fr66 ! 
And thou, lost Paradise of this divine 
And glorious world ! thou flowery 

wilderness ! 
Thou island of eternity ! thou 
shrine 
Where desolation clothed with 
loveliness. 
Worships the thing thou wert ! O 
Italy, 
Gather thy blood into thy heart ; re- 
press 
The beasts who make their dens thy 
sacred palaces. 



Oh, that the free would stamp the im- 
pious name 
Of King into the dust ! or write it 
there, 
So that this blot upon the page of 
fame 
Were as a serpent's path, which the 
light air 
Erases, and the flat sands close behind ! 
Ye the oracle have heard : 
Lift the victory-flashing sword. 
And cut the snaky knots of this foul 
gordian word. 
Which, weak itself as stubble, yet 
can bind 
Into a mass, irrefragably firm, 
The axes and the rods which awe 
mankind : 



414 



ODE TO LrBERTY 



The sound has poison hi it, 't is the 
sperm 
Of what makes life foul, cankerous, 
and abhorred : 
Disdain not thou, at thine appointed 

term. 
To set thine armed heel on this re- 
luctant worm. 

XVI. 

Oh, that the wise from their bright 
minds would kindle 
Such lamps within the dome of this 
dim world, 
That the pale name of Priest might 
shrink and dwindle 
Into the hell from which it first was 
hurled, 
A scoff of impious pride from fiends 
impure ; 
Till human thoughts might kneel 

alone 
Each before the judgment- throne 
Of its own aweless soul, or of thejpower 
unknown ! 
Oh, that the words which make the 
thoughts obscure 
From which they spring, as clouds 
of glimmering dew 
From a white lake blot heaven's blue 
portraiture. 
Were stript of their thin masks 
and various hue 
(And frowns and smiles and splendors 
not their own, 
Till in the nakedness of false and 

true 
They stand before their Lord, each 
to receive its due ! 



XVII. 

He who'taught man to vanquish what- 
soever 
Can be between the cradle and the 
grave 
Crowned him the King of Life. Oh, 
^ vain endeavor 1 
If on his own high will a willing 
slave. 
He has enthroned the oppression and 
the oppressor. 
What if earth can clothe and feed 
Amplest millions at their need. 
And power in thought be as the tree 
within the seed i* 
Or what if Art, an ardent inter- 
cessor, 
Driving on fiery wings to Nature's 
throne, 



Checks the great mother stooping tn 
caress her. 
And cries : Give me, thy child, do- 
minion 
Over all height and depth ? if Life can 
breed 
New wants, and wealth from those 

who toil and groan 
Rend of thy gifts and hers a thou 
sandfold for one. 

I 

XVIII. I 

Come Thou, but lead out of the inmost I 
cave 
Of man's deep spirit, as the morn- 
ing-star ! 
Beckons the Sun from the Eoan wave, . 
Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her i 
car 

Self-moving, like cloud charioted by,| 
flame ; 
Comes she not, and come ye not, 
Rulers of eternal thought, 
To judge, with solemn truth, life's ill- 
apportioned lot ? 
Blind Love, and equal Justice, andl 
the Fame 
Of what has been, the Hope oft 

what will be ? 
Oh Liberty ! if such could be thy* 

name 

Wert thou disjoined from these, or ' 
they from thee : 
If thine or theirs were treasures to be'' 
bought 
By blood or tears, have not the wise 

and free 
Wept tears, and blood like tears ?— 
The solemn harmony 

XIX. 

Paused, and the spirit of that mighty 
singing 
To its abyss was suddenly with- 
drawn ; 
Then, as a wild swan, when sublimely 
winging 
Its path athwart the thunder-smoke 
of dawn. 
Sinks headlong thro' the aerial golden 
light 
On the heavy sounding plain, 
When the bolt has pierced its 
brain ; 
As summer clouds dissolve, unbur- 
dened of their rain ; 
As a far taper fades with fading 
night. 
As a brief insect dies with dying 
dav, 



AKETHUSA. 



415 



My song, its pinions disarrayed of 

might, 
Droopt ; o'er it closed tlie eclioes 

far away 
Of tiie great voice which did its flight 

sustain, 
As waves which lately paved his 

watery way 
Hiss round a drowner's head in 

their tempestuous play. 

CANCELLED PASSAGE OP THE 
ODE TO LIBERTY. 

Within a cavern of man's trackless 
spirit 
Is throned an Image, so intensely 
fair 
That the adventurous thoughts that 
wander near it 
Worship, and as they kneel tremble 
and wear 
The splendor of its presence, and the 
light 
Penetrates their dreamlike frame 
Till they become charged with the 
strength of flame. 

TO 



I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden, 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 

My spirit is too deeply laden 
Ever to burden thine. 



I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion. 

Thou needest not fear mine ; 
Imiocent is the heart's devotion 

With which I worship thine. 

ARETHUSA. 

I. 

Arethusa arose 

From her couch of snows 
In the Acroceraunian mountains, — 

Fi'om cloud and from crag. 

With many a jag, 
Shepherding her bright fountains. 

She leapt down the rocks, 

With her rainbow locks 
Streaming among the streams ; — 

Her steps paved with green 

The downward ravine 
Which slopes to the western gleams : 

And gliding and springing 

She went, ever singing. 



In murmurs as soft as sleep ; 

The earth seemed to love her, 
And heaven smiled above her. 

As she lingered towards the deep. 



■ Then Alpheus bold, 

On his glacier cold. 
With his trident the mountains strook 

And opened a chasm 

In the rocks ;— with the .spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 

It concealed behind 
The urns of the silent snow, 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below 

The beard and the hair 

Of the River-god were 
Seen thro' the torrent's sweep. 

As he followed the light 

Of the fleet nymph's flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 



" Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me ! 

And bid the deep hide me, 
For he grasps me now by the hair ! " 

The loud Ocean heard. 

To its blue depth stirred. 
And divided at her prayer ; 

And under the water 

The Earth's white daughter 
Fled like a sunny beam ; 

Behind her descended 

Her billows, unblended 
With the brackish Dorian stream :— 

Like a gloomy stain i 

On the emerald main 
Alpheus rushed behind,— 

As an eagle pursuing 

A dove to its ruin » 
Down the streams of the cloudy wintL 



Under the bowers 
Where the Ocean Powers 

Sit on their pearled thrones. 
Thro' the coral woods 
Of the weltering floods. 

Over heaps of unvalued stones ; 
Ihro' the dim beams 
Which amid the streams 

Weave a network of colored light ; 
And under the caves. 
Where the shadowy waves 

Are as green as the forest's night :- 
Outspeeding the shark, 
And the sword-fish dark. 



416 



SONG OF PROSERPINE. 



Under the ocean foam, 
And up thro' the rifts 
Of the mountain clifts 

They past to their Dorian home. 



And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning 
basks 

Like friends once parted 

Grown single-hearted, 
They ply their watery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill ; 

At noontide they flow 

Through the woods below 
And the meadows of asphodel ; 

And at night they sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore ; — 

Like spirits that lie 

In the azure sky 
When they love but live no more. 

SONG OF PROSERPINE, 

WHILE GATHERING FLOWERS ON THE 

PLAIN OF ENNA. 

I. 

Sacked Goddess, Mother Earth, 
Thou from whose immortal bosom, 

Gods, and men* and beasts have birth, 
Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom. 

Breathe thine influence most divine 

On thine own child, Proserpine. 

II. 

If with mists of evening dew 

Thou dost nourish these young 
flowers 
Till they grow, in scent and hue. 

Fairest children of the hours, 
Breathe thine influence most divine 
On thine own child, Proserpine. 

HYMN OF APOLLO. 

The sleepless Hours who watch me as 
Hie, 
Curtained with star-inwoven tapes- 
tries. 

From the broad moonlight of the sky, 
Fanning the busy dreams from my 
dim eyes, — 

Waken me when their Mother, the gray 
Dawn, 

Tells them that dreams and that the 
moon is gone. 



II. 

Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's 

blue dome, 
I walk over the mountains and the 

waves, 
Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam; 
My footsteps pave the clouds with 

fire ; the caves 
Are filled with my bright presence, 

and the air 
Leaves the green earth to my embraces 

bare. 



The sunbeams are my shafts, with 

which I kill 
Deceit, that loves the night and fears 

the day ; 
All men who do or even imagine ill 
Fly me, and from the glory of my 

ray 
Good minds and open actions take new 

might. 
Until diminisht by the reign of night. 



IV. 

I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the 

flowers 
With their ethereal colors ; the 

Moon's globe 
And the pure stars in their eternal 

bowers 
Are cinctured with my power as with 

a robe ; 
Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven 

may shine. 
Are portions of one power, which is 

mine. 



I stand at noon upon the peak of 

Heaven, 
Then with unwilling steps I wander 

down 
Into the clouds of the Atlantic even ; 
For grief that I depart they weep and 

frown : 
What look is more delightful than the 

smile 
With which I soothe them from the 

western isle ? 



I am the eye with which the Universe 
Beholds itself aud knows itself 
divine ; 



THE QUESTION. 



417 



All harmony of instrument or verse, 

All prophecy, all medicine are mine. 
All light of art or nature , — to my song, 
Victory and praise in their own right 
belong. 



HYMN OP PAN. 



From the forests and highlands 

We come, we come ; 
From the river-girt islands. 

Where loud waves are dumb 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 
The wind in the reeds and the rushes, 

The bees on the bells of tl7yme, 
The birds on the myrtle bushes. 
The cicale above in the lime, 
And the lizards below in the grass. 
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 



Liquid Peneus was flowing, 
And all dark Tempo lay 
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing 
The light of the dying day. 
Speeded by my sweet pipings. 
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 
And the Nymphs of the woods and 
waves. 
To the edge of the moist river-lawns. 

And the brink of the dewy caves, 
And all that did them attend and 

follow 
Were silent with love, as you now, 
Apollo, 
AVith envy of my sweet pipings. 



I sang of the dancing stars, 

I sang of the diedal Earth, 
And of Heaven— and the giant wars, 
And Love, and Death, and Birth, — 
And then I changed my pipings, — 
Singing how down the vale of Menalus 
I pursued a maiden and claspt a 
reed : 
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! 
It breaks in our bosom and then we 
bleed : 
All wept, as I think both ye now would, 
If envy or age had not frozen your 
blood. 
At the sorrow of my sweet pip- 
ings. 
27 



THE QUESTION. 
I. 

I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the 

way. 
Bare winter suddenly was changed 

to spring, 
And gentle odors led my .steps astray, 
Mixt with a sound of waters mur- 
muring 
Along a shelving bank of turf, which 

lay 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to 

fling 
Its green arms round the bosom of the 

stream. 
But kist it and then fled, as thou 

mightest in dream. . 



II. 



There grew pied wind-flowers and 

violets, 
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the 

earth, 
The constellated flower that never 

sets ; 
Faint oxslips ; tender bluebells, at 

whose birth 
The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall 

flower that wets — 
Like a child, half in tenderness and 

mirth — 
Its mother's face with heaven's col- 
lected tears, 
When the low wind, its playmate's 

voice, it hears. 

III. 

And in the warm hedge grew lush 
eglantine, 
Green cowbind and the moonlight- 
colored May, 
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, 
whose wine 
Was the bright dew, yet drained not 
by the day ; 
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, 
With its dark buds and leaves, wan- 
dering astray ; 
And flower azure, black and streakt 

with gold. 
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 



And nearer to the river's trembling 
edge 
There grew broad flag-flowers, pur- 
ple prankt with white, 



418 



THE TWO SPIRITS : AX ALLEGOKY. 



And starry river buds among the 

sedye, 
And floating water-lilies, broad and 

bright, 
Which lit the oak that overhung the 

hedge 
Witli moonlight beams of their own 

watery light ; 
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep 

green 
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober 

sheen. 



Methought that of these visionary 

flowers 
I made a nosegay bound in such a 

way 
That the same hues, which in their 

natural bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like 

array 
Kept these imprisoned children of the 

Hours 
Within my hand, — and then, elate 

anil gay, 
I hastened to the spot whence I had 

come. 
That I might there present it ! — oh ! to 

whom y 



THE TWO SPIRITS : AN 
ALLEGORY. 

First Spirit. 

O THOU, who plumed with strong 
desire 
Wouldst float above the earth, be- 
ware ! 
A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire— 
Night is coming ! 
Bright are the regions of the air. 
And among the winds and beams 
It were delight to wander there — 
Night is coming ! 

Second Spirit. 

The deathless stars are bright above, 
If I would cross the shade of night, 
Within my heart is the lamp of love, 
And that is day ! 
And the moon will smile with gentle 
light 
On my golden plumes where'er they 
move ; 
The meteors will linger round my 
flight, 

And make night day. 



Fimt Spirit. 

But if the whirlwinds of darkness 
waken 
Hail, and lightning, and stormy 
rain ; 
See, the bounds of the air are shaken — 
Night is coming ! 
The red swift clouds of the hurri- 
cane 
Yon declining sun have overtaken. 
The clash of the hail sweeps over the 
plain — 

Night is coming ! 

" Second Spirit. 

I see the light, and I hear the sound ; 
I'll sail on the flood of the tempest 
dark, 
With the calm within and the light 
around 

Which makes night day : 
And thou, when the gloom is deep 
and stark, 
Look from thy dull earth, slumber- 
bound. 
My moon-like flight thou then may'st 
mark 

On high, far away. 



Some say there is a precipice 
Where one vast pine is frozen to 
ruin 
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice 
Mid Alpine mountains ; 
And that the languid storm pursuing 
That winged shape, for ever flies 
Round those hoar branches, aye re- 
newing 

Its aery fountains. 



Some say when nights are dry and 
clear. 
And the death-dews sleep on the mo- 
rass. 
Sweet whispers are heard by tlie trav 
eller. 

Which make night day ; 
And a silver shape like his early love 
doth pass 
Upborne by her wild and glittering 
hair. 
And when he awakes on the fragrant 
grass. 

He finds night day. 



ODE TO NAPLES. 



410 



ODE TO NAPLES.' 

EPODE I a. 

I STOOD within tlie city disinterred," 
And heard the autumntil leaves like 
ligrht footfalls 
Of spirits passing thro' the streets ; 
and heard 
The Mountain's slumberous voice 
at intervals 
Thrill thro' those roofless halls ; 
The oracular thunder penetrating 
shook 
The listening soul in my suspended 
blood ; 
I felt that Earth out of her deep heart 
spoke — 
I felt, but heard not : —thro' white 
columns glowed 
The isle-sustaining Ocean-flood, 
A plane of light between two Heavens 
of azure : 
Around me gleamed many a bright 
sepulchre 
Of whose pure beauty, Time, as if his 

pleasure 
Were to spare Death, had never made 
erasure ; 
But every living lineament was 

clear 
As in the sculptor's thought ; and 
there 
The wreaths of stony myrtle, ivy, and 
pine, 
Like winter leaves o'ergrown by 

moulded snow. 
Seemed only not to move and grow 
Because the crystal silence of the air 
Weighed on their life ; even as the 

Power divine 
Which then lulled all things, brooded 
upon mine. 

EPODK II a. 

Then gentle winds arose 
With many a mingled close 
Of wild ^olian sound and mountain- 
odor keen ; 
And where the Baian ocean 
Welters with airlike motion, 

1 The Author has connected many recol- 
lections of his visit to Pompeii and Baite 
with the enthusiasm excited by the intel- 
ligence of the proclamation of a Constitu- 
tional Government at Naples. This has 
given a tingeof picturesque and descriptive 
imagery to tlie introductory Epodes which 
depicture these scenes, and some of the 
ma.iestic feelings permanently connected 
with the scene of this animating event. 

2 Pompeii. 



Within, above, around its bovvers of 
starry green, 
Moving the sea-flowers in those 
purple caves 
Even as the ever-stormless atmos- 
phere 
Floats o'er the Elysian realm. 
It bore me like an Angel, o'er the 
waves 
Of sunlight, whose swift pinnace 
of dewy air 
No storm can overwhelm ; 
I sailed, where ever flows 
Under the calm Serene 
A spirit of deep emotion 
From the unknown graves 
Of the dead kings of Melody. » 
Shadowy Aornos darkened o'er the 

helm 
The horizontal ether ; heaven stript 

bare 
Its depths over Elysium, where the 

prow 
Made the invisible water white as 

snow ; 
From that Typhsean mount, Inarime 
There streamed a sunlit vapor, like 
the standard 
Of some ethereal host ; 
Whilst from all the coast, 
Louder and louder, gathering round, 
there wandered 
Over the oracular woods and divine 

sea 
Prophesyings which grew articulate— 
They seize me— I must speak them — 
be they fate ! 

STEOPHE a I. 

Naples ! thou Heart of men which ever 
pantest 
Naked, beneath the lidless eye of 
heaven ! 
Elysian City which to calm enchant- 
est 
The mutinous air and sea : they 
round thee, even 
As sleep round Love, are driven ! 
Metropolis of a ruined Paradise 
Long lost, late won, and yet but half 
regained ! 
Bright Altar of the bloodless sacrifice. 
Which armed Victory offers up un- 
stained 
To Love, the flower-enchained ! 
Thou which wert once, and then didst 

cease to be. 
Now art, and henceforth ever shalt be, 
free, 

^ Homer and Virgil. 



420 



ODE TO NAPLES. 



If Hope, and Truth, and Justice can 
avail, 
Hail, hail, all hail ! 

STROPHE ^ 2. 

Thou youngest giant birth 

Which from the groaning earth 
Leap'st, clothed in armor of impene- 
trable scale ! 

Last of the Intercessors ! 

Who 'gainst the Crowned Trans- 
gressors 
Pleadest before God's love ! Arrayed 
in Wisdom's mail. 

Wave thy lightning lance in mirth 

Nor let thy high heart fail, 
Tho' from their hundred gates the 
leagued Oppressors. 

With hurried legions move ! 

Hail, hail, all hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE a. 

AVhat tho' Cimmerian Anarchs dare 
blaspheme 
Freedom and thee ? thy shield is as a 
mirror 
To make their blind slaves see, and 
with fierce gleam 
To turn his hungry sword upon the 
wearer ; 
A new Actaeon's error 
Shall theirs have been— devoured by 
their own hounds. 
Be thou like the imperial Basilisk 
Killing thy foe with unapparent 
wounds ! 
Gaae on oppression, till at that dread 

risk 
Aghast she pass from the Earth's 
disk : 
Fear not, but gaze— for freemen might- 
ier grow. 
And slaves more feeble, gazing on their 
foe ; 
If Hope and Truth and Justice may 

avail. 
Thou Shalt be great.— All hail ' 

ANTISTROPHE /3 2. 

From Freedom's form divine. 
From Nature's inmost shrine. 

Strip every impious gawd, rend Error 
veil by veil : 
O'er Ruin desolate. 
O'er Falsehood's fallen state. 

Sit thou sublime, unawed ; be the Des- 
troyer pale ! 
And equal laws be thine, 
And winged words let sail. 



Freighted with truth even from th( 
throne of God : 
That wealth, surviving fate. 
Be thine.— All hail ! 



ANTISTROPHE a y. 

Didst thou not start to hear Spain's! 
thrilling paean | 

From land to land re-echoed solemnly.i 
Till silence became music ? From the' 
JEaean ' 
To the cold Alps, eternal Italy 
Starts to hear thine ! The Sea 
Which paves the desert streets of: 
Venice laughs 
In light and music ; widowed Genoa.i 
wan 
By moonlight spells ancestral epitaphs, 
Murmuring, where is Doria ? fain 
Milan, 
Within whose veins long ran 
The viper's = palsying venom, lifts heri! 

heel 
To bruise his head. The signal and the^ 
seal • 

(If Hope and Truth and Justice cam 

avail) 
Art thou of all these hopes.— O hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE /3 y. 

Florence ! beneath the sun, 

Of cities fairest one, 

Blushes within her bov/er for Free-- 

dom's expectation : 

From eyes of quenchless hope 

Rome tears the priestly cope, 

As ruling once by power, so now by 

admiration. 

As athlete stript to run 

From a remoter station 

For the high prize lost on Philippi's i 

shore :— 
As then Hope, Truth, and Justice did 

avail. 
So now may Fraud and Wrong ! O 
hail 1 

EPODE I. j3. 

Hear ye the march as of the Earth-born 
Forms 
Arrayed against the ever-living 
God. ? 
The crash and darkness of a thousand 
storms 
Bursting their inaccessible abodes 
Of crags and thunder-clouds ? 

' .Eaea, the island of Circe. 
' The viper was the armorial device of the 
Visconti, tyrants of Milan, 



THE WANING MOON. 



421 



See ye the banners blazoned to the 
day, 
Inwrought with emblems of barbaric 
pride ? 
Dissonant threats kills Silence far 
away, 
The serene Heaven which wraps our 
Eden wide 
With iron light is dyed, 
The Anarchs of the North lead forth 
their legions 
Like Chaos o'er creation, uncreat- 
ing; 
A hundred tribes nourisht on strange 

religions 
And lawless slaveries,— down the aerial 
regions 
Of the white Alps, desolating, 
Famisht wolves that bide no wait- 
ing, 
Blotting the glowing footsteps of old 

glory. 
Trampling our columned cities into 
dust. 
Their dull and savage lust 
On Beauty's corse to sickness sati- 
ating— 
They come ! The fields they tread look 

black and hoary 
With fire— from their red feet the 
streams run gory ! 

EPODE II. P. 

Great Spirit, deepest Love ! 
Which rulest and dost move 
All things which live and are, within 
the Italian shore ; 
Who spreadest heaven around it. 
Whose woods, rocks, waves, sur- 
round it ; 
Who sittest in thy star, o'er Ocean's 

western floor, 
Spirit of beauty ! at whose soft com- 
mand 
The sunbeams and the showers distil 
its foison 
From the Earth's bosom chill ; 
O bid those beams be each a blinding 
brand 
Of lightning ! bid those showers be 
dews of poison ! 
Bid the Earth's plenty kill ! 
Bid thy bright Heaven above. 
Whilst light and darkness bound 

it, 
Be their tomb who planned 
To make it ours and thine ! 
Or, with thine harmonizing ardors 
fill 
And raise thy sons, as o'er the prone 
horizon 



The lamp feeds every twilight wave 

with fire- 
Be man's high hope and unextinct de- 
sire. 
The instrument to work thy will di- 
vine ! 
Then clouds from sunbeams, ante- 
lopes from leopards. 
And frowns and fears from Thee, 
Would not more swiftly flee 
Than Celtic wolves from the Auso- 
nian shepherds. — 
Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry 
shrine 
Thou yieldest or withholdest, Oh, 

let be 
This city of our worship ever free ! 



AUTUMN : A DIRGE. 



The warm sun is failing, the bleak 

wind is wailing, 
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale 
flowers are dying, 
And the year 
On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud 
of leaves dead. 
Is lying. 
Come, months, come away, 
From November to May, 
In your saddest array ; 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year. 
And like dim shadows watch by her 
sepulchre. 



The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm 

is crawling, 
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is 
knelling 

For the year ; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the 
lizards each gone 

To his dwelling ; 
Come, months, come away, 
Put on white, black, and gray ; 
Let your light sisters play — 
Ye, follow tile bier 
Of the dead cold year. 
And make her grave green with tear 
on tear. 

THE WANING MOON. 

Ajjd like a dying lady, lean and pale. 
Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy 
veil, 



422 



TO THE MOON. 



Out of her chamber, led by the insane 
And feeble wanderings of her fading 

brain, 
The moon rose up in the murky east, 
A white and shapeless mass. 

TO THE MOON. 



Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the 
earth. 
Wandering companionless 
Among the stars that have a different 

birth, 
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its con- 
stancy ? 



Thou chosen sister of the spirit, 
That gazes on thee till in thee it 
pities . . . 

DEATH. 

I- 

Death is here and death is there. 
Death is busy everj'where. 
All around, witliin, beneath, 
Above is death— and we are death. 



Death has set his mark and seal 
On all we are and all we feel. 
On all we know and all we fear, 



First our pleasures die— and then 
Our hopes, and then our fears — and 

when 
These are dead, the debt is due. 
Dust claims dust — and we die too. 



All things that we love and cherish. 
Like ourselves must fade and perish, 
Such is our rude mortal lot- 
Love itself would, did they not. 

LIBERTY. 

I. 

The fiery mountains answer each 
other ; 
Their thunderings are echoed from 
zone to zone ; 



The tempestuous oceans awake one 
another. 
And the ice-rocks are shaken round 
Winter's throne, 
When the clarion of the Typhoon is 
blown. 



i 



single cloud the lightning | 
hes, ! 



From a 

flashes, 
Whilst a thousand isles are illumined f 
around. 
Earthquake is trampling one city to i 
ashes, 
A hundred are shuddering and tot- 
tering ; the sound 
Is bellowing underground. 



But keener thy gaze than the light- 
ning's glare. 
And swifter thy step than the earth- ■ 
quake's tramp ; 
Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean ; 
thy stare 
Makes blind the volcanoes ; the sun's i 
bright lamp 
To thine is a fen-fire damp. 



From billow and mountain and exhala- 
tion 
The sunlight is darted thro' vapor ■ 
and blast ; 
From spirit to spirit, from nation to > 
nation. 
From city to hamlet thy dawning is 
cast, — 
And tyrants and slaves are like 
shadows of night 
In the van of the morning light. 

SUMMER AND WINTER. 

It was a bright and cheerful afternoon. 
Towards the end of the sunny month 

of June, 
When the north wind congregates in 

crowds 
The floating mountains of the silver 

clouds 
From the horizon — and the stainless 

sky 
Opens beyond them like eternity. 
All things rejoiced beneath the sun ; 

the weeds. 
The river, and the cornfields, and the 

reeds : 
The willow leaves that glanced in the 

light breeze, 



THE WORLD S WANDERERS. 



423 



knA the firm foliage of the larger 

trees. 
;t was a winter such as when birds die 
in the deep forests ; and the fishes lie 
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which 

makes 
Even the mud and slime of the warm 

lakes 
^. wrinkled clod as hard as brick ; and 

when, 
A.mong their children, comfortable 

men 
Grather about great fires, and yet feel 

cold : 
A-las then for the homeless beggar old ! 

THE TOWER OF FAMINE. 

Amid the desolation of a city. 

Which was the cradle, and is now the 

grave 
Of an extinguisht people ; so that pity 

Weeps o'er the shipwrecks of oblivion's 
wave. 

There stands the Tower of Famine. It 
is built 

Upon some prison homes, whose dwell- 
ers rave 

For bread, and gold, and blood : pain, 

linkt to guilt, 
Agitates the light flame of their hours, 
Until its vital oil is spent or spilt ; 

There stands the pile, a tower amid 
the towers 

And sacred domes ; each marble- 
ribbed roof, 

The brazen-gated temples, and the 
bowers 

Of solitary wealth ; the tempest-proof 
Pavilions of the dark Italian air, 
Are by its presence dimmed— they 
stand aloof 

And are withdrawn— so that the world 

is bare. 
As if a spectre wrapt in shapeless 

terror 
Amid a company of ladies fair 

Should glide and glow, till it became a 

mirror 
Of all their beauty, and their hair and 

hue. 
The life of their sweet eyes, with all 

its error. 
Should be absorbed, till they to marble 

grew. 



AN ALLEGORY. 



A PORTAL as of shadowy adamant 
Stands yawning on the highway of 

the life 
Which we all tread, a cavern huge and 

gaunt ; 
Around it rages an vmceasing strife 
Of shadows, like the restless clouds 

that haunt 
The gap of some cleft mountain, lifted 

high 
Into the whirlwinds of the upper sky. 

II. 

And many pass it by with careless 
tread. 
Not knowing that a shadowy . . . 
Tracks every traveller even to where 
the dead 
Wait peacefully for their companion 
new ; 
But others, by more curious humor led 
Pause to examine, — these are very 
few. 
And they learn little there, except to 

know 
That shadows follow them where'er 
they go. 

THE WORLD'S WANDERERS. 

I. 

Tell me, thou star, whose wings of 

light 
Speed thee in thy fiery flight. 
In what cavern of the night 

Will thy pinions close now ? 



Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray 
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way. 
In what depth of night or day 
Seekest thou repose now ? 

III. 

Weary wind, who wanderest 
Like the world's rejected guest. 
Hast thou still some secret nest 
On the tree or billow ? 

SONNET. 

Ye hasten to the grave ! What seek 
ye there. 

Ye restless thoughts and busy pur- 
poses 



424 



LINES TO A REVIEWER. 



Of the idle brain, which the world's 

livery wear ? 
Oh thoa quick heart which pantest to 

possess 
All that pale Expectation feigneth fair! 
Thou vainly curious mind which would- 

est giiess 
Whence thou didst come, and whither 

thou must go, 
And all that never yet was known 

would know — 
Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye 

press, 
With such swift feet life's green and 

pleasant path. 
Seeking, alike from happiness and woe, 
A refuge in the cavern of gray death ? 
O heart, and mind, and thoughts ! 

what thing do you 
Hope to inherit in the grave below ? 

LINES TO A REVIEWER. 

Alas, good friend, what profit can you 

see 
In hating such a hateless thing as me ? 
There is no sport in hate when all the 

rage 
Is on one side ; in vain would you as 

suage 
Your frowns upon an unresisting smile. 
In which not even contempt lurks to 

beguile 
Your heart, by some faint sympathy 

of hate. 
Oh ! coiK|uer what you cannot satiate ; 
For to your passion I am far more coy 
Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy 
In winter noon. Of your antipathy. 
If I am the Narcissus, you are free 
To pine into a sound with hating me. 

FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE ON 
SATIRE. 

If gibbets, axes, confiscations, chains. 
And racks of subtle torture, if the 

pains 
Of shame, of fiery Hell's tempestuous 

wave. 
Seen thro' the caverns of the shadowy 

grave, 
Hurling the damned into the murky 

air 
While the meek blest sit smiling ; if 

Despair 
And Hate, the rapid bloodhounds with 

which Terror 
Hunts thro' the world the homeless 

steps of Erroi", 
Are the true secrets of the common- 
weal 



To make men wise and just ; . . . 
And not the sophisms of revenge and 

fear, 
Bloodier than is revenge . . . 
Then send the priests to every hearth' 

and home 
To preach the burning wrath which is. 

to come. 
In words like flakes of sulphur, such as 

thaw 
The frozen tears . . . 
If Satire's scourge could wake thecff 

slumbering hounds 
Of Conscience, or erase the deeper 

wounds, 
The leprous scars of callous infamy ; 
If it could make the present not to be, 
Or charm the dark past never to have- 

been, 
Or turn regret to hope ; who that has 

seen 
What Southey is and was, would not 

exclaim, 
Lash on ! be the keen verse- 

dipt in flame ; 
Follow his flight with winged words,; 

and urge 
The strokes of the inexorable scourge 
Until the heart be naked, till his soul 
See the contagion's spots foul ; 

And from the mirror of Truth's sunlikeA-, 

shield. 
From which his Parthian arrow . . . 
Flash on his sight the spectres of the- 

past. 
Until his mind's eye paint thereon — 
Let scorn like yawn below, 

And rain on him like flakes of fieryjj^i 

snow. 

This cannot be, it ought not, evil still- 
Suffering makes suffering, ill must fol- 
low ill. 
Rough words beget sad thoughts, ' 

and, beside. 
Men take a sullen and a stupid pride |" 
In being all they hate in others' shame, | ' 
By a perverse antipathy of fame. 
'T is not worth while to prove, as I 

could, how 
From the sweet fountains of our Na- 
ture flow 
These bitter waters ; I will only say. 
If any friend would take Southey some 

day. 
And tell him, in a country walk 

alone, |it 

Softening harsh words with friend 

ship's gentle tone, 
How incorrect his public conduct is, 
And what men think of it, 't were nottj 

amiss. i 

Far better than to make innocent ink— f( 



M 



ORPHEUS. 



425 



GOOD-NIGHT. 

I. 

OOD-NIGHT ! ah ! no ; the hour is ill 
Which severs those it should unite ; 
et us remain toorether still, 
Then it will be (jood night. 

II. 

ow can I call the lone night good. 
Though thy sweet wishes wing its 

flight ? 

e it not said, thought, understood— 
Then it will be— (/oor? night. 



hearts which near each other move 
From evening close to morning light, 
he night is good ; because, my love. 
They never say good-night. 

BUONA NOTTE. 



Come 



BuoNA notte, buona notte 

mai 

La notte sara buona senza te ? 
on dirmi buona notte, — che tu sai, 
La notte .sa star buona da per se. 

II. 

oligna, scura, cupa, senza speme, 
La notte quando Lilla m'abbandona ; 
el cuori chi si batton insieme 
Ogni notte, senza dirla, sara buona. 

III. 

ome male buona notte si suona 
Con sospiri e parole interrotte 1 — 
modo di aver la notte buona 
E raai non di dir la buona notte. 

ORPHEUS. 

A. Not far from hence. From j^on- 

der pointed hill, 
rowned with a ring of oaks, you may 

behold 
dark and barren field, thro' which 

there flows, 
luggish and black, a deep but narrow 

stream, 
/"Inch the wind ripples not, and the 

fair moon 
azes in vain, and finds no mirror 

there, 
ollow the herbless banks of that 

strange brook 



Until you pause beside a darksome 
pond. 

The fountain of this rivulet, whose 
gush 

Cannot be seen, hid by a rayless night 

That lives beneath the overhanging 
rock 

That shades the pool — an endless spring 
of gloom. 

Upon whose edge hovers the tender 
light. 

Trembling to mingle with its para- 
mour, — 

But, as Syrinx fled Pan, .so night flies 
day 

Or, with most sullen and regardless 
hate, 

Refuses stern her heaven-born em- 
brace. 

On one side of this jagged and shape- 
less hill 

There is a cave, from which there 
eddies up 

A pale mist, like aerial gossamer, 

Whose breath destroys all life — awhile 
it veils 

The rock— then, scattered by the wind, 
it flies 

Along the stream, or lingers on the 
clefts. 

Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide 
there. 

Upon the beetling edge of that dark 
rock 

There stands a group of cypresses ; not 
such 

As, with a graceful spire and stirring 
life, 

Pierce the pure heaven of your native 
vale. 

Whose branches the air plays among, 
but not 

Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn 
grace ; 

But blasted and all wearily they 
stand, 

One to another clinging ; their weak 
boughs 

Sigh as the wind buffets them, and 
they shake 

Beneath its blasts — a weatherbeaten 
crew ! 
Chorus. What wondrous sound is 
that, mournful and faint. 

But more melodious than the murmur- 
ing wind 

Which thro' the columns of a temple 
glides ? 
A . It is the wandering voice of Or- 
pheus' lyre, 

Borne by the winds, who sigh that 
their rude king 



42G 



ORPHEUS. 



Hurries them fast from these air-feed- 
ing notes ; 
But in their speed they bear along 

with them 
The waning sound, scattering it like 

dew 
Upon the startled sense. 

Cliorus. Does he still sing ? 

Methought be rashly cast away his 

harp 
When he had lost Eurydice. 

^4. Ah no ! 

Awhile he paused. As a poor hunted 

stag 
A moment shudders on the fearful 

brink 
Of a swift stream— the cruel hounds 

press on 
AVith deafening yell, the arrows glance 

and wound,— 
He plunges in : so Orpheus, seized and 

torn 
By the sharp fangs of an insatiate 

grief. 
Maenad-like waved his lyre in the 

bright air, 
And wildly shriekt, " Where she is, it 

is dark !'■ 
And then he struck from forth the 

strings a sound 
Of deep and fearful melody. Alas ! 
In times long past, when fair Eurydice 
With her bright eyes sat listening by 

his side, 
He gently .sang of high and heavenly 

themes. 
As in a brook, fretted with little 

waves. 
By the light airs of spring— each riplet 

makes 
A many-sided mirror for the sun. 
While it flows musically thro' green 

banks, 
Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and 

fresh, 
So flowed his song, reflecting the deep 

jo.v, 
And tender love that fed those sweetest 

notes 
The heavenly offspring of ambrosial 

food. 
But that is past. Returning from 

drear hell, 
He chose a lonely seat of unhewn 

stone. 
Blackened with lichens, on a herbless 

plain. 
Then from the deep and overflowing 

spring 
Of his eternal ever-moving grief 
There rose to Heaven a sound of angry 

song. 



'T is as a mighty cataract that parts 
Two sister rocks with waters swift an 

strong, 
And casts itself with horrid roar an 

din 
Adown a steep ; from a perennij, 

source 
It ever flows and falls, and breaks tt, 

air ' 

With loud and fierce, but most harm* 

nious roar. 
And as it falls casts up a vaporoi, 

spray 
Which the sun clothes in hues of Ir, 

light. ' 

Thus the tempestuous torrent of hi 

grief 
Is clothed in sweetest sound and var 

ing words 
Of poesy. Unlike all human works, ' 
It never slackens, and thro' eve): 

change ' 

Wisdom and beauty and the powi 

divine ' 

Of mighty poesy together dwell, ( 
Mingling in sweet accord. As I ha^ 

seen j, 

A fierce south blast tear thro' the dar: 

ened sky, i 

Driving along a rack of winged clouji 
Which may not pause, but ever hur 

on. 
As their wild shepherd wills the) 

while the stars. 
Twinkling and dim, peep from betwes 

the plumes. 
Anon the sky is cleared, and the hiji 

dome j 

Of serene Heaven, starred with fieH 

flowers, I 

Shuts in the shaken earth ; or t' 

still moon 
Swiftly, yet gracefully, begins b 

walk. 
Rising all bright behind the easte 

hills. 
I talk of moon, and wind, and sta: 

and not 
Of song ; but would I echo his hi, 

song. 
Nature must lend me words ne'er us 

before. 
Or I must borrow from her perf( 

works, 
To picture forth his perfect attribut 
He does no longer sit upon his thro 
Of rock upon a desert herbless plain 
For the evergreen and knotted ilexe 
And cypresses that seldom wave th 

boughs, 
And sea-green olives with their gra 

ful fruit, 



FIORDISPINA. 



427 



id elms dragging along the twisted 

vines, 
hicli drop their berries as they fol- 
low fast, 
tid blackthorn bushes with their in- 
fant race 
! blushing rose blooms ; beeches, to 

lovers dear, 
dd weeping-willow trees ; all swift or 

slow, 
3 their huge boughs or lighter dress 

permit, 
ave circled in his throne, and Earth 

herself 
as sent from her maternal breast a 

growth 
: starlike flowers and herbs of odor 

sweet, 
) pave the temple that his poesy 
as framed, while near his feet grim 

lions couch, 
nd kids, fearless from love, creep 

near his lair, 
i^en the blind worm seems to feel the 

sound, 
le birds are silent, hanging down 

their heads, 
ircht on the lowest branches of the 

trees ; 
)t even the nightingale intrudes a 

note 
rivalrji, but all entranced she 

listens. 

FIORDISPINA. 

€E season was the childhood of sweet 
June, 

hose sunny hours from morning until 
noon 

ent creeping thro' the day with si- 
lent feet, 

ich with its load of pleasure, slow 
yet sweet ; 

ke the long years of blest Eternity 

3ver to be developt. Joy to thee, 

ordispina and thy Cosimo, 

)r thou the wonders of the depth 
canst know 

' this unfathomable flood of hours, 

»arkling beneath the heaven which 
embowers — 

ley were two cousins, almost like to 

twins, 
ccept that from the catalogue of sins 
iture had rased their love— which 

could not be 
it by dissevering their nativity, 
id so they grew together like two 

flowers 



Upon one stem, which the same beams 

and showers 
Lull or awaken in their purple prime. 
Which the same hand will gather — the 

same clime 
Shake with decay. This fair day 

smiles to see 
All those who love — and who e'er loved 

like thee, 
Fiordispina ? Scarcely Cosimo, 
Within whose bosom and whose bi'ain 

now glow 
The ardors of a vision which obscure 
The very idol of its portraiture. 
He faints dissolved into a sea of love : 
But thou art as a planet sphered 

above ; 
But thou art Love itself — ruling the 

motion 
Of his subjected spirit : such emotion 
Must end in sin and sorrow, if sweet 

May 
Had not brought forth this morn — 

your wedding-day. 

Lie there ; sleep awhile in your own 

dew 
Ye faint-eyed children of the 

Hours." 
Fiordispina said, and threw the flowers 
Which she had from the breathing — 

— A table near of polisht porphyry. 

They seemed to wear a beauty from 
the eye 

That lookt on them — a fragrance from 
the touch 

Whose warmth checkt their life ; 

a light such 

As sleepers wear, lulled by the voice 
they love, 

which did reprove 

The childish pity that she felt for them. 

And a remorse that from their 

stem 

She had divided such fair shapes 
made 

A feeling in the which was a shade 

Of gentle beauty on the flowers ; there 
lay 

All gems that make the earth's dark 
bosom gay, 
rods of myrtle-buds and lemon- 
blooms, 

And that leaf tinted lightly which as- 
sumes 

The livery of unremembered snow — 

Violets whose eyes have drunk— 

Fiordispina and ner nurse are now 
Upon the steps of the high portico ; 



428 



TIME LONG PAST. 



Under the withered arm of Media 
She fliags her glowing arm 

step by step and stair by stair, 
That withered woman, gray and white 

and brown- 
More like a trunk by lichens overgrown 
Than anything which once could have 

been human. 
And ever as she goes the palsied 

woman. 

"How slow and painfully you seem 

to walk. 
Poor Media ! you tire yourself with 

talk." 

" And well it may, 
Fiordispina, dearest, well-a-day ! 
You are hastening to a marriage-bed ; 
I to the grave!"— "And if my love 

were dead, 
Unless my heart deceives me, I would 

lie 
Beside him in my shroud as willingly 
As now in the gay night-dress Lilla 

wrought." 
"Fie, child ! Let that unseasonable 

thought 
Not be remembered until it snows in 

June ; 
Such fancies are a music out of tune 
With the sweet dance your heart must 

keep to-night. 
What ! would you take all beauty and 

delight 
Back to the Paradise from which you 

sprung. 
And leave to grosser mortals ?— 
And say, sweet lamb, would you not 

And subtle mystery by which spirits 

meet ? 
Who knows whether the loving game 

is played. 
When, once of mortal [vesturej disar- 

raved. 
The naked soul goes wandering here 

and there 
Thro' the wide deserts of Elysian air ? 
The violet dies not till it " 

TIME LONG PAST. 
I. 

Like the ghost of a dear friend dead 

Is Time long past. 
A tone which is now forever fled, 
A hope which is now forever past, 
A love so sweet it could not last. 
Was Time long past. 



There were sweet dreams in the nighl 

Of Time long past : 
And, was it sadness or delight, 
Each day a shadow onwai'd cast 
Which made us wish it yet niighl 
last- 
That Time long past. 



There is regret, almost remorse, 

For time long past. 
'T is like a child's beloved corse 
A father watches, till at last 
Beauty is like remembrance, cast 
From Time long past. 

FRAGMENT : THE DESERTS 01 
SLEEP. 

I WENT into the deserts of dim sleep- 
That world, which like an unknowr 

wilderness. 
Bounds this with its recesses wide ano 

deep. 

FRAGMENT : CONSEQUENCE. 

The viewless and invisible Conse 

quence 
Watches thy goings-out, and comings 

in, 
And . . . hovers o'er thy guilty sleep 
Unveiling every new-born deed, an< 

thoughts 
More ghastly than those deeds. 

FRAGMENT : A FACE. 

His face was like a snake's— wrinkle* 

and loose 
And withered. 

FRAGMENT : WEARINESS. 

My head is heavy, my limbs are weary 
And it is not life that makes me move 

FRAGMENT : HOPE, FEAR AN! 
DOUBT. 

Such hope, as is the sick despair cl 
good, I 

Such fear, as is the certainty of ill, ' 

Such doubt, as is pale Expectation' 
food 

Turned while She tastes to poisoi 
when the will 

Is powerless, and the spirit . . . 



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. 



429 



FRAGMENT : " ALAS ! THIS IS 
NOT WHAT I THOUGHT LIFE 
WAS."' 

Alas ! this is not wliat I thought life 

was. 
I knew that there were crimes and evil 

men, 
Misery and hate ; nor did I hope to 

pass 

Untoucht by suffering, thro' the rug- 
ged glen. 

In mine own heart I saw as in a glass 
The hearts of others And when 

I went among my kind, with triple 

brass 
Of calm endurance my weak breast I 

armed. 
To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woful 

mass ! 

FRAGMENT : MILTON'S SPIRIT. 

I DREAMED that Milton's spirit rose, 

and took 
From life's green tree his Uranian 

lute. 
And from his touch sweet thunder 

flowed, and shook 
All human things built in contempt of 

man, — 
And sanguine thrones and impious 

altars quaked. 
Prisons and citadels . . . 

FRAGMENT : UNRISEN 
SPLENDOR. 

UNRISEN splendor of the brightest sun, 
To rise upon our darkness, if the star 
Now beckoning thee out of thy misty 

throne 
Could thaw the clouds which wage an 

obscure war 
With thy young brightness ! 

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1820, 
BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

We spent the latter part of the year 
1819 in Florence, where Shelley passed 
several hours daily in the Gallery, and 
made various notes on its ancient works 
of art. His thoughts were a good deal 
taken up also by the project of a steam- 
boat, undertaken by a friend, an en- 
gineer, to ply between Leghorn and 
Marseilles, for which he supplied a sum 

* Perhaps in continuation of that im- 
mediately preceding, and so forming a son- 
net.— Ed. 



of money. This was a sort of plan to 
delight Shelley, and he was greatly dis- 
appointed when it was thrown aside. 

There was something in Florence 
that disagreed excessively with his 
health, and he suffered far more pain 
than usual ; so much so that we left it 
sooner than we intended, and removed 
to Pisa, where we had some friends, 
and, above all, where we could consult 
the celebrated Vacca as to the cause 
of Shelley's sufferings. He, like every 
other medical man, could only guess at 
that, and gave him little hope of im- 
mediate relief : he enjoined him to ab- 
stain from all physicians and medicine, 
and to leave his complaint to Nature. 
As he had vainly consulted medical 
men of the highest repute in England, 
he was easily persuaded to adopt this 
advice. Pain and ill-health followed 
him to the end ; but the residence at 
Pisa agreed with him better than any 
other, and there in consequence we 
remained. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1831. 

DIRGE FOR THE YE.A.R. 

I. 

Orphan hours, the year is dead. 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 

Merry hours smile instead, 
For the year is but asleep. 

See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 

Mocking your untimely weeping. 



As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coffin in the clay. 
So White Winter, that rough nurse, 

Rock the death-cold year to-day ; 
Solemn hours ! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

III. 

As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child, 

So the breath of these rude days 
Rocks the year : — be calm and mild, 

Trembling hours, she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 



January gray is here. 
Like a sexton by her grave ; 

February bears the bier, 
March with grief doth howl and rave, 



430 



TO NIGHT. 



And April weeps— but, O, ye hours, 
Follow with May's fairest flowers. 

TO NIGHT. 



Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of til 9 misty eastern cave, 
Where all th8 long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovost dreams of joy and fear, 
Which nia\c thee terrible and dear,— 

S^vift be thy flight ! 

II. 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 
Star-inwrought ! 

Blind with thine? hair the eyes of Day : 

Kiss her until she be wearied out. 

Then wander o'er city, and sea, and 
land. 

Touching all with thine opiate wand- 
Come, long sought ! 

III. 

When 1 arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew 

was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary day turned to his rest. 
Lingering like an unloA^ed guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

IV. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
" Wouldst thou me '; " 

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 

Murmure I like a noontide bee. 

Shall I nestle near thy side ? 

" Wouldst thou me ?"— And I replied, 
" No, not thee ! " 



Death will come when thou art dead. 

Soon, too soon- 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night— 
Ssvift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 



TIME. 

Unf.vtiiom.vble Sea ! whose waves 
are years, 
Ocean of Time, whose waters of 
deep woe 



Are brackish with the salt of human 
tears ! 
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy 
ebb and flow 
Claspest the limits of mortality ! 
And sick of prey, yet howling on for 
more, 
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospi- 
table shore ; 
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in 
storm. 
Who shall put forth on thee. 
Unfathomable Sea ? 

LINES. 
I. 

Far, far away, O ye 
Halcyons of memory. 
Seek some far calmer nest 
Than tliis abandoned breast ; — 
No news of your false spring 
To my heart's winter bring. 
Once having gone, in vain 
Ye come again. 

II. 

Vultures, who build your bowers 
High in the Future's towers, 
Withered hopes on hopes are spread, 
Dying joys choked by the dead, 
Will serve your beaks for prey 
Many a day. 



FROM 



THE ARABIC : 
IMITATION. 



AN 



My faint spirit was sitting in the light 
Of thy looks, my love ; 
It panted for thee like the hind at 
noon 
For the brooks, my love. 
Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the 
tempest's flight 
Bore thee far from me ; 
My heart, for my weak feet were 
weary soon. 
Did companion thee. 



Oh ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or 
steed, 
Or the death they bear, 
The heart which tender thought 
clothes like a dove 
With the wings of care ; 
In the battle, in the darkness, in tlio 
need, 



TO 



431 



Shall mine cling to thee, 
Nor claim one smile for all the com- 
fort, love, 
It may bring to thee. 

TO EMILIA VIVIANI. 

Madonna, wherefore hast thou sent 
to me 
Sweet basil and mignonette ? 
Embleming love and health, which 

never yet 
In the same wreath might be. 

Alas, and they are wet ! 
Is it with thy kisses or thy tears ? 
For never rain or dew 
Such fragrance drew 
From plant or flower— the very doubt 
endears 
My sadness ever new, 
The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed 

for thee. 
Send the stars light, but send not love 
to me. 
In whom love ever made 
Health like a heap of embers soon to 
fade. 

THE FUGITIVES. 



The waters are flashing, 
The white hail is dashing, 
The lightnings are glancing, 
The hoar-spray is dancing—- 
Away ! 

The whirlwind is rolling. 
The thunder is tolling, 
The forest is swinging, 
The minster bells ringing — 
Come away ! 

The Earth is like Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn and in motion : 
Bird, beast, man, and worm 
Have crept out of the storm. 
Come away ! 

II. 

" Our boat has one sail. 
And the helmsman is pale ; — 
A bold pilot I trow, 
Who should follow us now," — 
Shouted He — 

And she cried : " Ply the oar ! 
Put off gayly from the shore ! " — 
As she spoke, bolts of death, 
Mixt with hail, speckt their path 
O'er the sea. 



And from isle, tower, and rock. 
The blue beacon cloud broke, 
And though dumb in the blast, 
The red cannon flasht fast 
From the lee. 



" And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou ? 
And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ? 
And drive we not free 
O'er the terrible sea, 
I and thou ? " 

One boat-cloak did cover 
The loved and the lover — 
Their blood beats one measure, 
They murmur proud pleasure 
Soft and low ;— 



While around the lasht Ocean, 
Like mountains in motion. 
Is withdrawn and uplifted, 
Sunk, shattered and sifted 
To and fro. 

IV. 

In the court of the fortress 
Beside the pale portress. 
Like a bloodhound well beaten 
The bridegroom stands, eaten 
By shame ; 

On the topmost watch-turret, 
As a death-boding spirit. 
Stands the gray tyrant father, 
To his voice the niad weather 
Seems tame ; 

And with curses as wild 
As e'er clung to child. 
He devotes to the blast, 
The best, loveliest, and last 
Of his name ! 



TO . 

Music, when soft voices die. 
Vibrates in the memory — 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken. 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. 
Are heapt for the beloved's bed ; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art 

gone 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



43 v! 



SONG. 



SONG. 

I. 

Rarely, rareiv, comest thou, 

Spirit of Delight ! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night ? 
Many a weary night and day 
'T isViiice thou art fled away. 



How shall ever one like me 

Win thee back again ! 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt"^s('off at pain. 
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 
All but those who need thee not. 



As a lizai'd with the shade 

Of a trembling leaf, 
Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; 

Even the sighs of grief 
Ileproacli thee, that thou art not near. 
And reproach thou wilt not hear. 



Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a merry measure, 
Thou wilt ni'ver come for pity, 

Thou wilt come for pleasure. 
Pity then will cut away 
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 



I love all that thou lovest. 

Spirit of Delight 1 
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest. 

And the starry night ; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When the golden mists are born. 



I love snow and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost ; 
I love waves, and winds, and storms. 

Everything almost 
Whichis Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

VII. 

I love tranquil solitude. 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good ; 

Between thee and me 
What ditference ? but thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love them less. 



VIH. 

I love Love— though he has wings, 

And like light can flee. 
But above all other things, 

Spirit, I love thee— 
Thou art love and life ! Oh come. 
Make once more my heart thy home. 



MUTABILITY. 



The flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow dies ; 
All that we wish to stay 

Tempts and then flies. 
What is this world's delight ? 
Lightning that mocks the night, 
Brief even as bright. 

II. 

Virtue, how frail it is ! 

Friendship how rare ! 
Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon they fall, 
Survive their joy and all 

Which ours we call. 



Whilst skies are blue and bright, 
Whilst flowers are gay. 

Whilst eyes that change ere night 
Make glad the day : 

Whilst yet the calm hours creep. 

Dream thou— and from thy sleep 
Then wake to weep. 

LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING 
THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OP j 
NAPOLEON. 

What ! alive and so bold, oh earth ? 
Art thou not overbold ! 
What ! leapest thou forth as of old 
In the light of thy morning mirth, 
The last of the flock of the starry fold ? 
Ha ! leapest thou forth as of old ? 
Are not the limbs still when the ghost 

is fled, 
And canst thou move. Napoleon being 

dead '! 

How ! is not thy quick heart cold ? 

What spark is alive on thy hearth ? 
How I is not KiH death-knell knolled ? 

And livest thoxi still. Mother Earth? 
Thou wert warming thy fingers old 
O'er the embers covered and cold 



A LAMENT. 



433 



Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled — 
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is 
dead? 

" Who has known me of old," replied 
Earth, 

" Or who has my story told ? 

It is thou who art overbold." 
And the lightning of scorn laught forth 
As she sung, " To my bosom I fold 
All my sons when their knell is knolled, 
And so with living motion all are fed, 
And the quick spring like weeds out of 
the dead. 

"Still alive and still bold," shouted 

Earth, 
" I grow bolder and still more bold. 
The dead All me ten thousandfold 
Puller of speed and splendor and mirth, 
[ was cloudy, and sullen, and cold, 
uike a frozen chaos uprolled, 
rill by the spirit of the mighty dead 
My heart grew warm. I feed on whom 

I fed. 

'Ay, alive and still bold," muttered 

Earth, 
" Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled. 
In terror and blood and gold, 
k torrent of ruin to death from his 

birth, 
lieave the millions who follow to mould 
rhe metal before it be cold ; 
\nd weave into his shame, which like 

the dead 
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his 

glory fled." 



SONNET : POLITICAL GREAT- 
NESS. 

'^OR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, 
"Tor peace, nor strength, nor skill in 

arms or arts, 
5hepherd those herds whom tyranny 

makes tame ; 
Verse echoes not one beating of their 

hearts, 
Ilstory is but the shadow of their 

shame, 
:^rt veils her glass, or from the pageant 

starts 
^s to oblivion their blind millions fleet, 
>taining that Heaven with obscene 

imagery 
)f their own likeness. What are num- 
bers knit 
Jy force or custom ? Man who man 

would be, 
rlust rule the empire of himself ; in it 

28 



Must be supreme, establishing his 
throne 

On vanquisht will, quelling the an- 
archy 

Of hopes and fears, being himself 
alone. 



THE AZIOLA. 



" Do you not hear the Aziola cry ? 
Methinks she must be nigh," 
Said Mary, as we sate 
In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles 
brought ; 
And I, who thought 
This Aziola was some tedious woman, 
Askt, "Who is Aziola?" How 
elate 
I felt to know that it was nothing 
human, 
No mockery of myself to fear or 
hate ; 
And Mary saAv my soul. 
And laught, and said, " Disquiet your- 
self not ; 
'T is nothing but a little downy 
owl." 



Sad Aziola ! many an eventide 

Thy music I had heard 
By wood and stream, meadow and 
moimtain side, 

And fields and marshes wide. 
Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, 
nor bird, 

The soul ever stirred ; 
Unlike and far sweeter than them all, 
Sad Aziola ! from that moment I 

Loved thee and thy sad cry. 

A LAMENT. 
I. 

O WORLD ! O life ! O time ! 
On whose last steps I climb 
Trembling at that where I had stood 
before : 
When will return the glory of your 
prime ? 
No more — oh, never more ! 



Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight ; 
Fresh spring, and summer, and win- 
ter hoar, 



4:m 



REMEMBRANCE. 



Move my faint heai't with grief, but 
with delight 
No more — oh, never more ! 

REMEMBRANCE. 



Swifter far than summer's flight — 
Swifter far than youth's delight- 
Swifter far than happy night. 

Art thou come and gone — 
As the earth when leaves are dead, 
As the night when sleep is sped, 
As the heart when joy is fled, 

I am left alone, alone. 



The swallow summer comes again — 
The owlet night resumes her reign — 
But the wild-swan youth is fain 

To fly with thee, false as thou.— 
My heart each day desires the morrow : 
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow ; 
Vainly would my winter borrow 

Sunny leaves from any bough. 

III. 

Lilies for a bridal bed- 
Roses for a matron's head- 
Violets for a maiden dead — 

Pansies let m y flowers be : 
On the living grave I bear 
Scatter them without a, tear — 
Let no friend, however dear, 

"Waste one hope, one fear for me. 

TO ED"\VARD "WILLIAMS. 
I. 

The serpent is shutout from paradise. 
The wounded deer must seek the 
herb no more 
In which its heart-cure lies : 
The widowed dove must cease to 
haunt a bower 
Like that from which its mate with 
feigned sighs 
Fled in the April hour, 
I too must seldom seek again 
Near happy friends a mitigated pain. 

IT. 

Of hatred I am proud, — with scorn 
content ; 
Indifference, that once hurt me, 
now is grown 
Itself indifferent. 
But not to speak of love, pity alone 



Can break a spirit already more than 
bent. 
The miserable one 
Turns the mind's poison into food,— 
Its medicine is tears, ^ts evil good. 



Therefore, if now I see you seldomer. 
Dear friends, dear friend! know 
that I only fly 
Your looks, because they stir 
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes 
that cannot die : 
The very comfort that they minister 
I scarce can bear, yet I, 
So deeply is the arrow gone, 
Should quickly perish if it were with- 
drawn. 

IV. 

When I return to my cold home, you 
ask 
Why am I not as I have ever been. 

You spoil me for the task 
Of acting a forced part in life's dull 
scene,— 
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask 
Of author, great or mean. 
In the world's carnival. I sought 
Peace thus, and but in you I found it 
not. 



Full half an hour to-day, I tried my lot 
With various flowers, and every 
one still said, 
" She loves me — loves me not." 
And if this meant a vision long 
since iled — 
If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of 
thought — 
If it meant, — but I dread 
To speak what you may know too 
well : 
Still there was truth in the sad oracle. 

VI. 

The crane o'er seas and forests seeks 
her home ; 
No bird so wild but has its quiet 
nest, 
When it no more would roam ; 
The sleepless billows on the ocean's 
breast 
Break like a bursting heart, and die in 
foam. 
And thus at length find rest. 
Doubtless there is a place of peace 
Where my weak heart and all its 
thi'obs will cease. 



A BRIDAL SONG. 



435 



VII. 

I askt her, yesterday if she believed 
That I had resolution. One who 
hud 
Would ne'er have thus relieved 
His heart with words, — but what 
his judgment bade 
Would do, and leave the scorner unre- 
lieved. 
These verses are too sad 
To send to you, but that I know, 
Happy yourself, you feel another's 
woe. 



TO . 

I. 

One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother. 
And pity for thee more dear 

Than that from another. 



I can give not what men call love. 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not, 
The desire of the moth for the star. 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

Prom the sphere of our sorrow ? 



TO 



When passion's trance is overpast, 
If tenderness and truth could last 
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep 
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep, 
I should not weep, I should not weep ! 

II. 

It were enough to feel, to see, 
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly, 
And dream the rest — and burn and be 
The secret food of fires unseen, 
Couldst thou but be as thou hast been. 



After the slumber of the year 
-The woodland violets reappear. 
All things revive in field or grove, 



And sky and sea, but two, which 

move. 
And form all others, life and love. 

A BRIDAL SONG. 
I. 

The golden gates of Sleep imbar 
Where Strength and Beauty, met to- 
gether. 

Kindle their image like a star 
In a sea of glassy weather. 

Night, with all thy stars look down, — 

Darkness, weep thy holiest dew, — 
Never smiled the inconstant moon 

On a pair so true. 
Let eyes not see their own delight ; — 
Haste, swift Hour, and thy flight 
Oft renew. 



Fairies, sprites, and angels keep lier ! 

Holy stars, permit no wrong ! 
And return to wake the sleeper. 

Dawn,— ere it be long ! 
O joy ! O fear ! what will be done 
In the absence of the sun ! 
Come along ! 

ANOTHER VERSION OF THE 
SAME. 

NiuHT, with all thine eyes look down ! 

Darkness shed its holiest dew ! 
When ever smiled the inconstant 
moon 
On a pair so true ? 
Hence, coy Hour ! and quench thy 

light. 
Let eyes see their own delight ! 
Hence, swift hour ! and thy loved 
flight 
Oft renew. 

Boys. 

O joy ! O fear ! why may be done 
In the absence of the sun ? 

Come along ! 

The golden gates of sleep unbar ! 
When strength and beauty meet to- 
gether, 
Kindles their image like a star 

In a sea of glassy weather. 
Hence, coy hour ! and quench thy 

light. 
Lest eyes see their own delight ! 
Hence, swift hour ! and thy loved 
flight 
Oft renew. 



436 



A BRIDAL SONG. 



Girh. 

O joy ! O fear ! what may be done 
In the absence of the sun ? 

Come along ! 

Fairies ! sprites ! and angels keep her ! 

Holiest powers, permit no wrong ! 
And return, to wake tlie sleeper, 

Dawn, ere it be long. 
Hence, swift hour I and quench thy 

light. 
Let eyes see their own delight ! 
Hence, coy hour, and thy loved flight 
Oft renew. 

Boys and Girls. 

O joy ! O fear ! what will be done 
In the absence of the sun ? 

Come along ! 



ANOTHER VERSION OF THE 
SAME. 

Boys sing. 

Night ! with all thine eyes look down ! 

Darkness ! weep thy holiest dew ! 
Never smiled the inconstant moon 

On a pair so true. 
Haste, coy Hour ! and quench all light. 
Lest eyes see their own delight ! 
Haste, swift Hour ! and thy loved 
flight 
Oft renew. 

Girls Sinq. 

Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her ! 

Holy stars ! permit no wrong ! 
And return to wake tlie sleeper. 

Dawn, ere it be long ! 
O joy ! O fear ! there is not one 
Of us can guess what may be done 
In the absence of the sun ;— 
Come along ! 

Boys. 

Oh ! linger long, thou envious eastern 
lamp 
In the damp 
Caves of the deep ! 

Girls. 

Nay, return, Vesper ! urge thy lazy 
car ! 
Swift unbar 
The gates of Sleep. 



Chorus. 

The golden gate of Sleep unbar, 
When Strength and Beauty, met tO' 
gether, 

Kindle their image, like a star 
In a sea of glassy weather. 

May the purple mist of love 

Round them rise, and with them move. 

Nourishing each tender gem 

Which, like flowers, will burst from 
them. 

As the fruit is to the tree 

May their children ever be ! 

LOVE, HOPE, DESIRE, AND 
FEAR. 

And many there were hurt by that 
strong boy ; 
His name, they said, was Pleasure. 
And near him stood, glorious beyond 

measure. 
Four Ladies who possess all empery 

In earth and air and sea. 
Nothing that lives from their award is 
free. 
Their names will I declare to thee, 
Love, Hope, Desire, and Fear, 
And they the regents are 
Of the four elements that frame the 

heart. 
And each diversely exercised her art 
By force or circumstance or sleight 
To prove her dreadful might 
Upon that poor domain. 
Desire presented her [falsej glass and 
then 
The spirit dwelling there 
Was spellbound to embrace what 
seemed so fair 
Within that magic mirror. 
And dazed by that bright 
error. 
It would have scorned the [shafts] of 
the avenger. 
And death, and penitence, and 
danger, 
Had not then silent Fear 
Toucht with her palsying spear, 
So that as if a frozen torrent 
The blood was curdled in its cur- 
rent ; 
It dared not speak, even in look or mo- 
tion. 
But chained within itself its proud de- 
votion. 
Between Desire and Fear thou wert 
A wretched thing, poor heart ! 
Sad was his life who bore thee in his 
breast, 



PROLOGUE TO HELLAS. 



437 



Wild bird for tliat weak nest. 
:ill Love from even fierce Desire it 

bought, ^ . J. A 

^nd from tlie very wound ot tender 

tliought 
)rew solace, and the pity of sweet 

eyes ., 

Jave strength to bear those gentle 

agonies, 
Jurmount the loss, the terror, and tlie 
sorrow. 
Then Hope approacht, she who can 

borrow 
For poor to-day, from rich to-mor- 
row. 
And Fear withdrew, as night when 

day . ^ 

Descends upon the orient ray, 
And after long and vain endurance 
The poor heart awoke to her assur- 
ance. 

—At one birth the.se four were 
born 

With the world's forgotten morn, 

And from Pleasure still they hold 

All it circles, as of old. 

When, as summer lures the swal- 
low. 

Pleasure lures the heart to fol- 
low — 

O weak heart of little wit ! 

The fair hand that wounded it, 

Seeking, like a panting hare, 

Refuge in the lynx's lair. 

Love, Desire, Hope, and Fear, 
Ever will be near. 



PROLOGUE TO HELLAS. 

Herald of Etcrnltij. It is the day 
when all the sons of God 
Wait in the roofless senate-house, 

whose floor 
Is Chaos, and the immovable abyss 
Frozen by his steadfast world to hya- 
line 

The shadow of God, and delegate 

Of that before his breath the universe 

Is as a print of dew. . 

Hierarchs and kings 
Who from yon thrones pinnacled on 

the past 
Sway the reluctant present, ye who sit 
Pavilioned on the radiance of the gloom 
Of mortal thought, which like an ex- 
halation 
Steaming from earth, conceals the , 
of heaven 



Which gave it birth, assemble 

here 
Before your Father's throne ; the swift 

decree 
Yet hovers, and the fiery incarnation 
Is yet withheld, clothed in which it 

shall annul 
The fairest of those wandering isles 

that gem 
The sapphire space of interstellar air. 
That grt-eu and azure sphere, that 

earth enwrapt 
Less in the beauty of its tender light 
Than in an atmosphere of living spirit 
Which interpenetrating all the . . . 

it rolls from realm to realm 
And age to age, and in its ebb and flow 
Impels the generations 
To their appointed place, 
Whilst the high Arbiter 
Beholds the strife, and at the appointed 

time 
Sends his decrees veiled in eternal . . . 

Within the circuit of this pendant orb 
There lies an antique region, on which 

fell 
The dews of thought in the world's 

golden dawn 
Earliest and most benign, and from it 

sprung 
Temples and cities and immortal forms 
And harmonies of wisdom and of song. 
And thoughts, and deods worthy of 

thouglits so fair. 
And when the sun of its dominion 

failed. 
And when the winter of its glory came. 
The winds that stript it bare blew on 

and swept 
The dew into the utmost wildernesses 
In wandering clouds of sunny rain that 

thawed 
The unmaternal bosom of the North. 
Haste, sons of God, for ye 

beheld, 
Reluctant, or consenting, or astonisht, 
The stern decrees go forth, which 

heapt on Greece 
Ruin and degradation and despair. 
A fourth now waits : assemble, sons of 

God, 
To speed or to prevent or to suspend. 
If, as ye dream, such power be not 

w'ithheld, 
The unacconiplisht destiny. 

C/io)-)(.s. 

The curtain of the Universe 
Is rent and shattered. 



438 



PROLOGUE TO HELLAS. 



The spleudor-wingod worlds disperse 
Like the wild doves scattered. 

Space is roofless and bare, 
And in the midst a cloudy shrine, 

Dark amid thrones of light. 
In the blue glow of hyaline 
Golden worlds revolve and shine 
„ In flight 

Jrom every point of the Infinite, 

Like a thousand dawns on a single 
night 
The splendors rise and spread ; 
And thro' thunder and darkIl(^ss dread 
Light and music arc radiated, 
And in their pavilioned chariots led 
By living wings high overhead 

The giant Powers move, 
Gloomy or bright as the thrones they 
fill. 



A chaos of light and motion 
Upon that glas.sy ocean. 

The senate of the Gods is met, 
Each in his rank and station set ; 
There is silence in the spaces— 
Lo ! Satan, Christ, and Mahomet 

Start from their places ! 
Christ. Almighty Father ! 

Low-kneeling at the feet of Destiny 

There are two fountains in which 

spirits weep 
When mortals err, Discord and Slavery 

named. 
And with their bitter dew two Desti- 
nies 
Filled each their irrevocable urns : the 

third, 
Fiercest and mightiest, mingled both, 

and added 
Chaos and Death, and slow Oblivion's 

lymph, 
And hate and terror, and the poisoned 

rain 



The Aurora of the nations. By this 

brow 
Whose pores wept tears of blood, by 

these wide wounds. 
By this imperial crown of agony, 
By infamy and solitude and death, 
For this I underwent, and by the pain 
Of pity for those who would for 

me 
The uiiremembered joy of a revenge, 
For this 1 felt— by Plato's sacred light, , 



Of which my spirit was a burning moi 
row — 

By Greece and all she cannot cease tl 

be. 
Her quenchless words, sparks of iir 

mortal truth. 
Stars of all night— her harmonies am 

forms, I 

Echoes and shadows of what Lovi 

adores | 

In thee, I do compel thee, send fortli 

Pate, 
Thy irrevocable child : let her descem 
A seraph-winged victory [arrayedj 
In tcmpi.st of the omnipotence of Goc 
Which sweeps through all things. 

From hollow leagues, from Tyranmi 

which arms 
Adverse miscreeds and emulous anari 

chies 
To stamp, as on a winged serpent's 

seed, 
Upon the name of Freedom ; from the 

storm 
Of faction which like earthquake 

shakes and sickens 
The solid heart of enterprise ; from aW 
By which the holiest dreams of highest 

spirits 
Are stars beneath the dawn . . . 

She shall arisen 
Victorious as the world arose froim 

Chaos ! 
And as the Heavens and the Earthii 

arrayed 
Their presence in the beauty and theJ 

light 
Of thy first smile, O Father, as thevv 
gather ^ 

The spirit of thy love which paves for: 

them 
Their path o'er the abyss, till every. 

sphere 
Shall be one living Spirit, so shall I 
Greece— 
Satan. Be as all things beneath the 
empyrean, 
Mine ! Art thou eyeless like old De.s- 

tiny, 
Thou mockery-king, crowned with a 

wreath of thorns ? 
Whose sceptre is a reed, the broken 

reed. 
Which pierces thee ! whose throne a 

chair of scorn ; 
For seest thou not beneath this crystal 

floor 
The innumerable worlds of golden light 
Which are my empire, and the least of 
them 



FRAGMENTS WRITTEN FOR HELLAS. 



439 



which thou wouldst redeem 

from me ? , . , 

:now'st ihou not them my portion ? 
ir woiildsl rekindle the |H"^v_, 

^hichour great Father then did arbi- 

rhicl? he^ assigned to his competing 

sons ^ , . 

:ach his apportioned reami .■' 
,d,uu lus ayf T:ho\i Destiny, 

•hou who art mailed in the omnipo- 

)f Him who sends thee forth, whate'er 

thy task, ,. , , , « 

Jpeed, spare not to accomplish, and be 

rhy trojhies, whether Greece again 

rhe fountain in the desert whence the 

Shall ^drink of freedom, which shall 

give it strength 
ro suffer, or a gulf of hollow death 
To swallow all delight, all life all hope 
^0, thou Vicegerent of "JY 71 "' i^^ ^^^^^ 
rhan of the Father's ; but lest thou 

shouldst faint, _ 
The winged hounds, Famine and Pesti- 

Shall wSiTonthee, the hundred-forked 
snake ,, 

Insatiate Superstition still shall . ^ 

The earth behind thy steps, and ^^ ar 
shall hover , , ^ 

Above, and Fraud shall gape below, 
and Change 

Shall flit before thee on her dragon 

ConviSffand consuming, and I add 
Th?ee vials of the tears which demons 

When^irfuous spirits thro' the gate of 

Pass triumphing over the thorns of 

life 
Sceptres and crowns, mitres and swords 

and snares ^ o^^ 

Trampling in scorn, like Him and Soc- 

The first isAnarchy ; when Power and 
Pleasure, 

Glorv and science and security, 

On Freedom hang like fruit on the 
green tree, , „ , , 

Then pour it forth, and men shall gath- 
er ashes. 

The second Tyranny— 
Christ Obdurate spirit ! 

Thou seest but the Past in the To-come. 

Pride is thy error and thy punishment. 

Boast not thine empire, dream not that 
thy worlds 



Are more than furnace-sparks or rain- 
bow-drops 

Before the Power that wields and kin- 
dles them. 

True greatness asks not space, true ex- 

Lives in the Spirit of all things that 

Which lends it to the worlds thou call- 
est thine. 



Mahomet. . . • Haste thou and 

fi,ll the waning crescent 
With beams as keen as those which 

pierced the shadow 
Of Christian night rolled back upon the 

West ■■ • 

When the orient moon of Islam rode m 

triumph . „ 

From Amolus to the Acroceraunian 

snow. 

Wake, thou Word 
Of God, and from the throne of Des- 

Even toThe utmost limit of thy way 
May Triumph 

Be thou a curse on them whose 

Divides ^and multiplies the most high 
God. 

FRAGMENTS WRITTEN FOR 
HELLAS. 



FAIREST of the Destinies, 
Disarray thy dazzling eyes : 
Keener far thy lightnings are 

Than the winged [bolts] thou 
bearest, , 

And the smile thou wearest 
Wraps thee as a star 

Is wrapt in light. 

II. 

Could Arethuse to her forsaken urn 
F??m Alpheus and the bitter Dons run 
Or could the morning shafts of 
purest light ^ ^^ o, 
Aeain into the quivers of the Sun 
Be gathered-could one thought from 
its wild flight . 

Return into the temple of the brain 
Without a change, without a 

stain, — 
Could aught that is, ever again 



410 



FRAGMENT : " I WOULD NOT BE A KING. 



Be what it once has ceased to be, 
Greece might again be free ! 

in. 

A star has fallen upon the earth 

Mid the benighted nations, 

A quenchless atom of immortal 

light, 
A living spark of Night, 
A cresset shaken from the constella- 
tions 
Swifter than the thunder fell 
To the heart of Earth, the well 
Where its pulses flow and beat. 
And unextinct in that cold source 
Burns, and on coiu'se 

Guides the sphere which is its pris- 
on, 
Like an angelic spirit pent 
In a form of mortal birth, 
Till, as a spirit half arisen 
Shatters its charnel, it has rent. 
In the rapture of its mirth, 
The thin and painted garment of the 

Earth, 
Ruining its chaos— a fierce breath 
Consuming all its forms of living death. 

FRAGMENT : " I WOULD NOT BE 

A KING." 
I WOULD not be a king— enough 

Of woe it is to love ; 
The path to power is steep and rough. 

And tempests reign above. 
I would not climb the imperial throne ; 
T is built on ice which fortune's sim 

Thaws in the height of noon. 
Then farewell, king, j-et were I oue. 

Care would not come so soon. 
Would he and I were far away 
Keeping flocks on Himalay ! 

GINEVRA. 

Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even 

as one 
Who staggers forth into the air and 

sun 
From the dark chamber of a mortal 

fever, 
Bewildered, and incapable, and ever 
Fancying strange comments in her 

dizzy brain 
Of usual shapes, till the familiar train 
Of objects and of persons past like 

things 
Strange as a dreamer's mad imagin- 
ings, 
Ginevra from the nuptial altar went ; 
The vows to which her lips had sworn 

assent 



Rung in her brain still with a .iarring 

din, 
Deafening the lost intelligence within. 

And so she moved under the bridal 

veil. 
Which made the paleness of her cheek 

more pale, 
And deepened the faint crimson of heri 

mouth. 
And darkened her dark locks as moon 

light doth, — 
And of the gold and jewels glittering; 

there 
She scarce felt conscious,— but the 

weary glare 
Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light. 
Vexing the sense with gorgeous under- 
light. 
A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud 
Was less heavenly fair— her face was • 

bowed. 
And as she past, the diamonds in her 

hair 
Were mirrored in the polisht marble 

stair 
Which led from the cathedral to the 

street ; 
And ever as she went her light fair 

feet 
Erased these images. 

The bride-maidens who round her 

thronging came, 
Some with a sense of self-rebuke and 

shame, 
Envying the unenviable ; and others 
Making the joy which should have been 

another's 
Their own by gentle sympathy ; and 

some 
Sighing to think of an unhappy home : 
Some few admiring what c^n ever 

lure 
Maidens to leave the heaven serene and 

pure 
Of parents' smiles for life's great cheat : 

a thing 
Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining. 

But they are all disperst — and, lo ! 

she stands 
Looking in idle grief on her white 

hands. 
Alone within the garden now her 

own ; 
And thro' the sunny air, with jangling 

tone. 
The music of the merry marriage bells, 
Killing the azure silence, sinks and 

swells ;— 



GINEVRA. 



441 



Absorbed like one within a dream who 

Ai-eams 
That he is dreaming, until slumber 

seems 
A mockery of itself— when suddenly 
Antonio stood before her, pale as she. 
With agony, with sorrow, and with 

pride. 
He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride, 
And said— "Is this thy faith?" and 

then as one 
Whose sleeping face is stricken by the 

sun 
With light like a harsh voice, which 

bids him rise 
And look upon his day of life with eyes 
Which weep in vain that they can 

dream no more, 
Ginevra saw her lover, and forebore 
To shriek or faint, and checkt the sti- 
fling blood 
Rushing upon her heart, and unsub- 
dued 
Said— " Friend, if earthly violence or ill. 
Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will 
Of parents, chance, or custom, time or 

change, 
Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge. 
Or wildered looks, or words, or evil 

speech. 
With all their stings and venom can 

impeach 
Our love,— we love not :— if the grave 

which hides 
The victim from the tyrant, and 

divides 
The cheek that whitens from the eyes 

that dart 
Imperious inquisition to the heart 
That is another's could dissever ours. 
We love not."—" What ! do not the 

silent hours 
Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal bed ? 
Is not that ring "—a pledge, he would 

have said, 
Of broken vows, but she with patient 

look 
The golden circle from her finger took, 
And said— "Accept this token of my 

faith, 
The pledge of vows to be absolved by 

death ; 
And I am dead or shall be soon — my 

knell 
Will mix its music with that merry 

bell; 
Does it not sound as if they sweetly 

said 
' We toll a corpse out of the marriage- 
bed?' 
The flowers upon my bridal chamber 

strewn 



Will serve unfaded for my bier— so 

soon 
That even the dying violet will not die 
Before Ginevra." The strong fantasy 
Had made her accents weaker and 

more weak. 
And quencht the crimson life upon her 

cheek, 
And glazed her eyes, and spread an at- 
mosphere 
Round her, which chilled the burning 

noon with fear. 
Making her but an image of the 

thought. 
Which, like a prophet or a shadow, 

brought 
News of the terrors of the coming 

time. 
Like an accuser branded with the 

crime 
He would have cast on a beloved friend, 
Whose dying eyes reproach not to the 

end 
The pale betrayer — he then with vain 

repentance 
Would share, he cannot now avert, the 

sentence- 
Antonio stood and would have spoken, 

when 
The compound voice of women and of 

men 
Was heard approaching ; he retired, 

while she 
Was led amid the admiring company 
Back to the palace, — and her maidens 

soon 
Changed her attire for the afternoon, 
And left her at her own request to 

keep 
An hour of quiet and rest. — Like one 

asleep 
With open eyes and folded hands she 

lay. 
Pale in the light of the declining day. 

Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the 

sun is set. 
And in the lighted hall the guests are 

met ; 
The beautiful looked lovelier in the 

light 
Of love, and admiration, and delight 
Reflected from a thousand hearts and 

eyes 
Kindling a momentary Paradise. 
This crowd is safer than the silent 

wood, 
Where love's own doubts disturb the 

solitude ; 
On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine 
Falls, and the dew of music more 

divine 



442 



GINEVEA. 



Tempers the deep emotions of the time 

To spirits cradled in a svmny clime :— 

How man}' meet who never yet have 
met, 

To part too soon, but never to forget ! 

How many saw the beauty, power and 
wit 

Of looks and words which ne'er en- 
chanted yet ! 

But life's familiar veil was now with- 
drawn, 

As the world leaps before an earth- 
quake's dawn, 

And unprophetic of the coming hours, 

The matin winds from the expanded 
flowers. 

Scatter their hoarded incense, and 
awaken 

The earth, until the dewy sleep is 
shaken 

From every living heart which it pos- 
sesses. 

Thro' seas and winds, cities and wilder- 
nesses 

As if the future and the past were all 

Treasured i' the instant ;— so Gherardi's 
hall 

Laught in the mirth of its lord's festi- 
val. 

Till some one askt— " Where Is the 
Bride S' " And then 

A bride's-maid went, — and ere she 
came again 

A silence fell upon the guests— a pause 

Of expectation, as when beauty awes 

All hearts with its approach, tho' un- 
beheld ; 

Then wonder, and then fear that won- 
der quelled ; — 

For whispers past from mouth to ear 
which drew 

The color from the hearer's cheeks, 
and flew 

Louder and swifter round the com- 
pany ; 

And then Gherardi entered with an 
eye 

Of ostentatious trouble, and a crowd 

Surrounded him, and some were weep- 
ing loud 
They found Ginevra dead ! if it be 
death. 

To lie without molfion, or pulse, or 
breath, 

With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, 
stitT and white. 

And open eyes, whose fixt and glassy 
light 

Mockt at the speculation they had 
owned. 

[f it be death, when there is felt 
around 



A smell of clay,a pale and icy gUye, 

And silence, and a sense that lifts the 
hair 

From the scalp to the ankles, as it were 

Corruption from the spirit passing 
forth. 

And giving all it shrouded to the earth. 

And leaving as swift lightning in its 
flight 

Ashes, and smoke, and darkness ; in 
our night 

Of thought we know thus much of 
death,— no more 

Than the unborn dream of our life be- 
fore 

Their barks are wreckt on its inhos- 
pitable shore. 

The marriage feast and its solemnity 
Was turned to a funeral pomp— the 

company 
With heavy hearts and looks, broke 

up ; nor they 
Who loved the dead went w-eeping on 

their way 
Alone, but sorrow mixt with sad sur- 
prise 
Loosened the springs of pity in all 

eyes, 
On which that form, whose fate they 

weep in vain. 
Will never, thought they, kindle smiles 

again. 
The lamps which half extinguisht in 

their haste 
Gleamed few and faint o'er the aban- 
doned feast, 
Showed as it were within the vaulted 

room 
A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom 
Had past out of men's minds into the 

air. 
Some few yet stood around Gherardi 

there, 
Friends and relations of the dead,— 

and he, 
A loveless man, accepted torpidly 
The consolation that he wanted not. 
Awe in the place of grief within him 

wrought. 
Their whispers made the solemn silence 

seem 
More still— some wept, . . . 
Some melted into tears without a sob, 
And some with hearts that might be 

heard to throb 
Leant on the table, and at intervals 
Shuddered to hear thro' the deserted 

halls 
And corridors the thrilling shrieks 

which came 



THE BOAT ON TflE SEKCHIO. 



44;] 



Upon the breeze of night, that shook 

the flume 
Of every torch and taper as it swept 
From out tlie chamber where the 

women kept ; — 
Their tears fell on their dear compan- 
ion cold 
Of pleasures now departed ; then was 

knolled 
The bell of death, and soon the priests 

arrived, 
And finding death their penitent had 

shrived. 
Returned like ravens from a corpse 

whereon 
A vulture had just feasted to the bone. 
And then the mourning women 

came. — 



THE DIKGE. 

Old winter was gone 
In his weakness back to the mountains 
hoar, 
And the spring came down 
From the planet that hovers upon the 
shore 
Where the sea of sunlight encroaches 
On the limits of wintry night ; — 
If the land, and the air, and the sea, 

Rejoice not when spring approaches, 
We did not rejoice in thee, 
Ginevra ! 

She is still, she is cold 

On the bridal couch. 
One step to the white death-bed, 

And one to the bier. 
And one to the charnel— and one, oh 
where ? 

The dark arrow fled 

In the noon. 
Ere the sun thro' heaven once more 

has rolled. 
The rats in her heart 
Will have made their nest, 
And the worms be alive in her golden 

hair. 
While the spirit that guides the sun, 
Sits throned in his flaming chair, 

She shall sleep. 

EVENING : PONTE A MARE, 
PISA. 



The sun is set ; the swallows are 
asleep ; 
The bats are flitting fast in the gray 
air ; 



The slow soft toads out of damp corners 

creep. 
And evening's breath, wandering 

here and there 
Over the quivering surface of the 

stream, 
Wakes not one ripple from its summer 

dream. 

II. 

There is no dew on the dry grass to- 
night, 
Nor damp within the shadow of the 
trees ; 

The wind is intermitting, dry, and 
light ; 
And in the inconstant motion of the 
breeze 

The dust and straws are driven up and 
down, 

And whirled about the pavement of 
the town. 

III. 

Within the surface of the fleeting 
river 
The wrinkled image of the city lay. 
Immovably unquiet, and for ever 

It ti-embles, but it never fades away ; 
Go to the . . . 

You, being changed, will flnd it then 
as now. 

IV. 

The chasm in which the sun has sunk 
is shut 
By darkest barriers of cinereous 
cloud. 

Like mountain over mountain 
huddled— but 
Growing and moving upwards in a 
crowd, 

And over in a space of watery blue. 

Which the keen evening star is shin- 
ing thro'. 



THE BOAT ON THE SERCHIO. 

Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream. 
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a 

dream, 
The helm sways idly, hither and 

thither ; 
Dominic, the boatman, has brought 

the mast. 
And the oars and the sails ; but 't is 

sleeping fast. 
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether. 



444 



THE BOAT ON THE SERCHIO. 



The stars burnt out in the pale blue 
air, 

And the thin white moon lay wither- 
ing theio, 

To tower, and cavern, and rift and 
and tree, 

The owl and the bat fled drowsily. 

Day had kindled the dewy woods, 
And the rocks above and the stream 
below, 

And the vapors in their multitudes. 
And the Apennine's shroud of sum- 
mer snow. 

And clothed with light of aery gold 

The mists in their eastern caves up- 
rolled. 

Day had awakened all things that be. 
The lark and the thrush and the swal- 
low free. 
And the milkmaid's song and the 
mower's scythe, 
And the matin-bell and the mountain 

bee ; 
Fire-flies were quencht on the dewy 
corn, 
Glow-worms went out on the river's 

brim. 
Like lamps which a student forgets 
to trim : 
The beetle forgot to wind his horn, 
The crickets were still in the meadow 
and hill : 
Like a Hock of rooks at a farmer's gun 
Night's dreams and terrors, every one. 
Fled from the brains from which are 

their prey 
From the lamp's death to the morning 

ray. 
All rose to do the task He set to each, 
Who shaped us to his ends and not 
our own ; 
The million rose to learn, and one to 
teach 
What none yet ever knew or can be 
known. 
And many rose 
Whose woe was such that fear be- 
came desire ;— 
Melchior and Lionel were not among 

those ; 
They from the throng of men had stept 

aside. 
And made their home vinder the green 

hillside. 
It was that hill, whose intervening 
brow 
Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envi- 
ous eye, 
Which the circumfluous plain waving 
below. 
Like a wide lake of green fertility, 



With streams and fields and marshes 

bare. 
Divides from the far Apennine? - 

which lie 
Islanded in the immeasurable air. 



" What think you, as she lies in her 

green cove. 
Our little sleeping boat is dreaming. 

of?" 
" If morning dreams are true, why I) 

should guess 
That she was dreaming of our idleness, 
And of the miles of watery way 
We should have led her by this time ofi 

day. "— 

" Never mind, " said Lionel, 

" Give care to the winds, they can:: 

bear it well 
About yon poplar tops ; and see ! 
The white clouds are driving merrily, , 
And the stars we miss this morn willl 

light 

More willingly our return to-night.— - 
How it whistles, Dominic's long black; 

hair ! 
List my dear fellow ; the breeze? 

blows fair : 
Hear how it sings into the air." 

" Of us and of our lazy motions," 
Impatiently said Melchior. 
" If I can guess a boat's emotions ; 
And how we ought, two hours be- ■ 
fore. 

To have been the devil knows where." ' 
And then, in such transalpine Tuscan i 
As would have killed a Della-Crus- 
can, 



So, Lionel according to his art. 
Weaving his idle words, Melchior 

said : 
" She dreams that we are not yet out 
of bed ; 
We'll put a soul into her, and a heart 
Which like a dove chased by a dove 
shall beat." 



' *Ay, heave the ballast over- 
board, 
And stow the estables in the aft 
locker." 

" Would not this keg be best a little 
lowered ? " 

" No, now all 's right." "Those bottles 
of warm tea — 

(Give me some straw) -must be stowed 
tenderly ; 



SONNET TO BYRON. 



445 



uch as we used, in summer after six, 
cram in great-coat pockets, and to 

mix 
[ard eggs and radishes and rolls at 

Eton, 
.nd, coucht on stolen hay in those 

green harbors 
'armers called gaps, and we schoolboys 

called arbors, 
Vould feast till eight." 



Then, thro' the pestilential deserts 

wild 
Of tangled march and woods of 

stunted pine. 
It rushes to the Ocean. 



With a bottle in one hand, 
Ls if his very soul were at a stand, 
Jonel stood— when Melchior brought 

him steady :— 
Sit at the helm— fasten this sheet- 
all ready ! " i 

The chain is loost, the sails are spread, 
The living breath is fresh behind, 
As with dews and sunrise fed, 
Comes the laughing morning wind ;— 
The sails are full, the boat makes head 
Against the Serchio's torrent fierce. 
Then flags with intermitting course. 
And hangs upon the wave, and 

stems 
The tempest of the . . . 
Which fervid from its mountain 

source 
Shallow, smooth and strong doth 

come, — 
Swift as fire, tempestuously 
It sweeps into the affrighted sea ; 
In morning's smile its eddies coil, 
Its billows sparkle, toss and boil, 
Torturing all its quiet light 
Into columns fierce and bright. 

The Serchio, twisting forth 
Between the marble barriers which it 
clove , , 

At Ripafratta, leads thro' the dread 
chasm 
The wave that died the death which 
lovers love, 
Living in what it sought ; as if this 
spasm 
Had not yet past, the toppling moun- 
tains cling, 
But the clear stream in full enthusi- 
asm 
Pours itself on the plain, then wander- 
ing 

Down one clear path of effluence 
crystalline, 
Sends its superfluous waves, that they 
may fling 
At Arno's feet tribute of corn and 
wine, 



MUSIC. 



I PANT for the music which is divine. 
My heart in its thirst is a dying 
flower ; 
I Pour forth the sound like enchanted 
I wine, 

I Loosen the notes in a silvery shower ; 
i Like a herbless plain, for the gentle 

rain, 
j I gasp, I faint, till they wake again. 

I II. 

I Let me drink of the spirit of that 
sweet sound, 
More, oh more,— I am thirsting yet, 
It loosens the serpent which care has 
bound 
Upon my heart to stifle it ; 
The dissolving strain, thro' every vein, 
Passes into my heart and brain. 

III. 

As the scent of a violet withered up, 
Which grew by fhe brink of a silver 
lake ; 
When the hot noon lias drained its 
dewy cup. 
And mist there was none its thirst to 

And the violet lay dead while the odor 

flew 
On the wings of the wind o'er the 

waters blue— 

IV. 

As one who drinks from a charmed 
cup 
Of foaming and sparkling and mur- 
muring wine. 
Whom, a mighty Enchantress, filling 
up. 
Invites to love with her kiss di- 
vine . . . 

SONNET TO BYRON. 



[I AM afraid these verses will not please 
I you, but] 

I If I esteemed you less. Envy would kill 
I Pleasure, and leave to Wonder and 
1 Despair 



440 



FRAGMENT OX KEATS. 



The ministration of tlie thoughts that 

fill 
The mind which, like a worm whose 

life may share 
A portion of the vmapproachable, 
Marks j'our creations rise as fast and 

fair 
As perfect worlds at the Creator's 

will. 
But such is my regard that nor your 

power 
To soarabove the heights where others 

iclimbj, 
Nor fame, that shadow of the unborn 

hour 
Cast from the envious future on the 

time. 
Move one regret for his unhonored 

name 
Who dares these words : — the worm 

beneath the sod 
May lift itself in homage of the God. 



FRAGMENT ON KEATS. 

WHO DESIRED THAT ON HIS TOMB 
SHOULD BE INSCRIBED— 

"Here lieth One whose name was 
writ on water." 
But, ere the breath that could erase 
it blew, 
Death, in remorse for that fell slaugh- 
ter, 
Death, the immortalizing winter, 

flew 
Athwart the stream,— and time's 
printless torrent grew 
A scroll of crystal, blazoning the name 
Of Adonais. — 



FRAGMENT : " METHOUGHT I 
WAS A BILLOW IN THE 
CROWD." 

METHOUGHT I was a billow in the 
crowd 
Of common men, that stream with- 
out a shore. 
That ocean which at once is deaf and 
loud ; 
That I, a man, stood amid many more 
By a wayside .... which the aspect 
bore 
Of some imperial metropolis, 
Where mighty shapes— pyramid, 
dome, and tower — 
Gleamed like a pile of crags. 



TO-MORROW. 

Where art thou, beloved To-morrow 

When young and old and strong a 

weak, 

Rich and poor, thro' joy and sorrow, 
Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, — 

In thy place— ah ! well-a-day ! 

We find the thing we fled— To-day. 



STANZA.' 

If I walk in Autumn's even 
While the dead leaves pas.s. 

If I look on Spring's soft heaven,- 
Something is not there which was.- 

Winter's wondrous frost and snow, 

Summer's clouds, where are they nov 

FRAGMENT : A WANDERER. 

He wanders, like a day-appearir 
dream. 

Thro' the dim wilderness of tl 
mind ; 

Thro' desert woods and tracts, whici 
seem 
Like ocean, homeless, boundless, u:i 
confined. \ 

FRAGMENT : PEACE SURROUNlJ 
ING LIFE. 

The babe is at peace within the womli 

The corpse is at rest within the tomW 

We begin in what we end. 

FRAGMENT : " I FAINT, I PERISI 
WITH MY LOVE ! " 

I FAINT, I perish with my love ! 
grow 
Frail as a cloud whose [splendors 
pale 
Under the evening's ever-changin 
glow : 
I die like mist upon the gale. 
And like a wave under the calm I fai 



FRAGMENT : THE LADY OF THl 
SOUTH. 

Faint with love, the Lady of th' 
South 
Lay in the paradise of Lebanon 
Under a heaven of cedar boughs ; th<| 
drouth 

[ Perhaps in continuation of "To-mor 
row."— Ed. 



THE ZUCCA. 



44T 



Of love was on her lips ; the light 

was gone 
Hit of her eyes. 

FRAGMENT : THE AWAKENER. 

!OME, thou awakener of the spirit's 

ocean, 
Zephyr, whom to thy cloud or cave 
lo thought can trace ! speed with thy 

gentle motion ! 



FRAGMENT : RAIN. 
:he gentleness of rain was in the wind. 

FRAGMENT : AMBUSHED 
DANGERS. 

When soft winds and sunny skies 
1 With the green earth harmonize. 
And the young and dewy dawn, 
Bold as an unhunted fawn, 
Up the windless heaven is gone,— 
Laugh— for ambusht in the day,— 
Clouds and whirlwinds watch their 
I prey. 

FRAGMENT : " AND THAT I 
WALK THUS PROUDLY 
CROWNED." 

AXD that I walk thus proudly crowned 

withal 
Is that 't is my distinction ; if I fall, 
I shall not weep out of the vital day, 
To-morrow dust, nor wear a dull decay. 

FRAGMENT: "THE RUDE WIND 
IS SINGING." 

The rude wind is singing 
The dirge of the music dead, 

The cold worms are clinging 
Where kisses were lately fed. 

FRAGMENT: " GREAT SPIRIT." 

Great Spirit whom the sea of bound- 
less thought 
Nurtures within its unimagmed 
caves, 
In which thou sittest sole, as in ray 
mind. 
Giving a voice to its mysterious 
waves. 



FRAGMENT : " O THOU 
IMMORTAL DEITY." 

thou immortal deity 

Whose throne is in the depth of human 
thought, 

1 do adjure thy power and thee 
By all that man may be, by all that he 

is not. 
By all that he has been and yet must 
be ! 

FRAGMENT : FALSE LAURELS 
AND TRUE. 

" What art thou, Presumptuous, who 
profanest 
The wreath to mighty poets only due. 
Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou 
wanest ? 
Touch not those leaves which for the 
eternal few 
Who wander o'er the paradise of fame. 

In sacred dedication ever grew : 
One of the crowd thou art without a 
name." 
"Ah, friend, 't is the false laurel 
that I wear ; 
Bright tho' it seem, it is not the same 
As that which bound Milton's immor- 
tal hair ; , j.^ ^ 
Its dew is poison and the hopes that 
quicken 
Under its chilling shade, tho seem- 
ing fair. 
Are flowers which die almost before 
they sicken." 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1823. 
THE ZUCCA. 



Summer was dead and Autumn was 
expiring. 
And infant Winter laught upon the 
land 

All cloudlessly and cold ;— when I, de- 
siring 
More in this world than any under- 
stand, 

Wept o'er the beauty, which like sea 
retiring. 
Had left the earth bare as the wave- 
worn sand 

Of my lorn heart, and o'er the grass 
and flowers 

Pale for the falsehood of the flattering 
Hours. 



448 



THE ZUCCA. 



II. 

Summer was dead, but I yet lived to 
weep 
The instability of all but weeping ; 
And on the Earth lulled in her winter 
sleep 
I woke, and envied her as she was 
sleeping. 
Too happy Earth ! over thy face shall 
creep 
The wakening vernal airs, until thou, 
leaping 
From unremembered dreams, shalt see 
No death divide thy immortality. 

III. 

I loved— oh no, I mean not one of ye, 

Or any earthly, tho' ye are dear 
As human heart to human heart may 
be ;— 
I loved, I know not what— but this 
low sphere 
And all that it contains, contains not 
thee, 
Thoa, whom seen nowhere, I feel 
everywhere. 
From heaven and earth, and all that 

in them are. 
Veiled art thou, like a star. 



By Heaven and Earth, from all whose 

shapes thou flowest, 
Neither to be contained, delayed, nor 

hidden, 
Making divine the loftiest and the 

lowest, 
When for a moment thou art not 

forbidden 
To live within the life which thou be- 

stowest ; 
And leaving noblest things vacant 

and chidden, 
Cold as a corpse after the spirit's flight. 
Blank as the sun after the birth of 

night. 



In winds, and trees, and streams, and 
all thmgs common, 
In music and the sweet unconscious 
tone 
Of animals, and voices which are 
human, 
Meant to express some feelings of 
their own ; 
In the soft motions and rare smile of 
woman. 
In flowers and leaves, and in the 
grass fresh-shown, 



Or dying in the autumn, I the most 
Adore thee present or lament thee lost 



And thus I went lamenting, when ' 

saw 
A plant upon the river's margin We, . 
Like one who loved beyond his nature's 

law. 
And in despair had cast him down tc 

die ; 
Its leaves which had outlived the frost/ 

the thaw 
Had blighted ; like a heart whicfc 

hatred's eye 
Can blast not, but which pity kills • the 

dew ' 

Lay on its spotted leaves like tears too^ 

true. 



The Heavens had wept upon it, but th& 
Earth 
Had crusht it on her unmaternali 
breast. 



I bore it to my chamber, and I planted! 
It in a vase full of the lightest mould; : 
The winter beams which out of Heaven i 
slanted 
Fell thro' the window panes, disrobed 1 
of cold. 
Upon its leaves and flowers ; the star ■ 
whicn panted 
In evening for the Day, who.se car 
has rolled 
Over the horizon's wave, with looks of 

light 
Smiled on it from the threshold of the 
night. 



The mitigated influences of air 
And light revived the plant, and 
from it grew 
Strong leaves and tendrils, and its 
flowers fair, 
Full as a cup with the vine's burning 
dew, 
O'er flowed with golden colors ; an at- 
mosphere 
Of vital warmth infolded it anew. 
And every impulse sent to every 

part 
The unbeheld pulsations of its heart. 



LINES: WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED. 



449 



^ell might the plant grow beautiful 

and strong, 
Even if the air and sun had smiled 

not on it ; 
?or one wept o'er it all the winter 

long 
Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which 

fell upon it 
3our after liour , for sounds of softest 

song 
Mixt with the stringed melodies that 
, won it 

To leave the gentle lips on which it 

slept, 
3ad loost the heart of him who sat and 

wept. 

XI. 

Had loost his heart, and shook the 
leaves and flowers 
On which he wept, the while the 
savage storm 
Waked by the darkest of December's 
hours 
Was raving round the chamber husht 
and warm ; 
The birds were shivering in their leaf- 
less bowers. 
The fish were frozen in the pools, 
the form 
3f every summer plant was dead . . . 
Whilst this . . . 



THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER 
PATIENT. 



Sleep, sleep on ! forget thy pain ; 

My hand is on thy brow, 
My spirit on thy brain ; 
My pity on thy heart, poor friend ; 

And from my fingers flow 
The powers of life, and like a sign, 

Seal thee from thine hour of woe ; 
And brood on thee, but may not blend 
With thine. 



Sleep, sleep on ! I love thee not ; 

But when I think that he 
Who made and makes my lot 
As full of flowers as thine of weeds, 

Might have been lost like thee ; 
And that a hand which was not mine, 

Might have then charmed his agony 
As I another's— my heart bleeds 
For thine. 



III. 

" Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of 

The dead and the unborn 
I'orget thy life and love ; 
Forget that thou must wake forever ; 

Forget the world's dull scorn ; 
Forget lost health, and the divine 

Feelings which died in youth's brief 
morn ; 
And forget me, for I can never 
Be thine. 

IV. 

" Like a cloud big with a May shower, 
My soul weeps healing rain, 

On thee, thou withered flower ; 

It breathes mute music on thy sleep ; 
Its odor calms thy brain ; 

Its light within thy gloomy breast 
Spreads like a second youth again. 

By mine thy being is to its deep 
Possest. 



" The spell is done. How feel you 
now S' " 
" Better— Quite well," replied 
The sleeper. — " What would do 
You good when suffering and awake ? 

What cure your head and side ?— " 
" What would cure, that would kill 
me, 
Jane : 
And as I must on earth abide 
Awhile, yet tempt me not to break 
My chain." 



LINES 



WHEN THE LAMP IS 
SHATTERED. 



When the lamp is shattered 
The light in the dust lies dead — 

When the cloud is scattered 
The rainbow's glory is shed. 

When the lute is broken, 
Sweet tones are remembered not ; 

When the lips have spoken, 
Loved accents are soon forgot. 



As music and splendor 
Survive not the lamp and the lute. 

The heart's echoes render 
No song when the spirit is mute :— 

No song but sad dirges. 
Like the wind through a ruined cell, 

Or the mournful surges 
That ring the dead seaman's knell. 



29 



450 



TO JANE : THE INVITATION, 



When hearts have oiioe mingled 
Love hrst leaves the well-built nest, 

The w^eak one is singled 
To endure what it once possest. 

O Love ! who bewailest 
The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 
For your cradle, your home, and your 
bier ? 



Its passions will rock thee 
As the storms rock the ravens on 
high : 

Bright reason will mock thee, 
I^ike the sun from a wintry sk3^ 

From thy nest every rafter 
Will rot, and thine eagle home 

Leave thee naked to laughter. 
When leaves fall and cold winds come. 

TO JANE : THE INVITATION. 

Bkst and brightest, come away ! 
Fairer far than this fair Day, 
Which, like thee to those in sorrow. 
Comes to bid a sweet good-mori'ow 
To the rough Year just awake 
In its cradle on the brake. 
The brightest liour of unborn Spring, 
Thro' tlie winter wandering, 
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn 
To hoar February born ; 
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth. 
It kist the forehead of the Earth, 
And smiled upon the silent sea. 
And bade the frozen streams l)e free. 
And waked to music all their foun- 
tains, 
And breathed upon the frozen moun- 
tains, 
And like a ijrophctess of May 
Strewed tt(nv('rs upon the barren way. 
Making the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Away, away, from men and towns. 

To the wild wood and the downs— 

To the silent wilderness 

Where the soul need not repress 

Its music lest it should not find 

An echo in another's mind, 

While the touch of Nature's art 

Harmonizes heart to heart. 

I leave this notice on my door 

For each accustomed visitor : — 

" I am gone into the fields 

To take what this sweet hour yields ; — 

Reflection, you may come to-morrow. 

Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. — 



■ You with the unpaid bill, Despair,— 
You tiresome verse-reciter. Care, — 
I will pay you in the grave,— 
Death will listen to your stave. 
Expectation too, be off ! 
To-day is for itself enough ; 
Hope in pity mock not Woe 
With smiles, nor follow where I go ; : 
Long having lived on thy sweet foo( 
At length I find one moment's good 
After long pain— with all your love, 
This you never told me of." 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 
Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 
To the wild woods and the plains, 
And the pools where Winter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves. 
Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green and ivy dun 
Round stems that never kiss the sun' 
Where the lawns and pastures be, 
And the sandhills of the sea ; — 
WIuTc the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets, 
And wind-flowers, and violets. 
Which yet join not scent to hue. 
Crown the pale year weak and new ; , 
When the night is left behind 
In the deep east, dun and blind, 
And the blue noon is over us, 
And the multitudinous 
Billows murmur at our feet, 
Where the earth and ocean meet. 
And all things seem only one 
In the univei'sal sun. 

TO JANE : THE RECOLLECTIOK 



Now the last day of many days, 

All beautiful and bright as thou, 

The loveliest and the last, is deaci 

Rise, Memory, and write its praise ! ' 

Up to thy wonted work ! come, trac. 

The epitaph of glory fled, — 
For now the Earth - has changed it, 
face, 
A frown is on the Heaven's brow. 

II. I 

We wandered to the Pine Forest i 

That skirts the Ocean's foam, 
The lightest wind was in its nest, i 

The tempest in its home. j 

The whispering waves were hal 

asleep, \ 

The clouds were gone to play. 
And on the bosom of the deep. 

The smile of Heaven lay ; 



WITH A GUITAE, TO JANE. 



451 



seemed as if the hour were one 
Sent from beyond the skies, 

hich scattered from above the sun 
A light of Paradise. 

III. 

e paused amid tlie pines that stood 

The giants of the waste, 
)rtured by storms to shapes as rude 

As serpents interlaced, 
nd sootlied by every azure breath. 

That under heaven is blown, 
) harmonies and hues beneath, 

As tender as its own ; 
3w all the tree-tops lay asleep, 

Like green waves on the sea, 
3 still as in the silent deep - 

The ocean woods may be. 



ow calm it was 1— the silence there 

By such a chain was bound 
lat even the busy woodpecker 

Made stiller by her sound 
ae inviolable quietness ; 

The breath of peace we drew 
ith its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew, 
lere seemed from the remotest seat 

Of the white mountain waste, 
) the soft flower beneath our feet, 

A magic circle traced, — 
spirit interfused around, 

A thrilling silent life, 
:) momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal nature's strife ;— 
nd still I felt the centre of 

The magic circle there, 
"as one fair form that filled with love 

The lifeless atmosphere. 



''e paused beside the pools that lie 

Under the forest bough, 
ach seemed as 't were a little sky 

Gulft in a world below ; 
firmament of purple light, 

Which in the dark earth lay, 
ore boundless than the depth of 
night. 

And purer than the day— 
I which the lovely forests grew 

As in the upper air, 
ore perfect both in shape and hue 

Than any spreading there, 
here lay the glade and neighboring 
lawn. 

And thro' the dark green wood 
he white sun twinkling like the 
dawn 

Out of a speckled cloud. 



Sweet views which in our world above 

Can never well be seen, 
Were imaged by the water's love 

Of that fair forest green. 
And all was interfused beneath 

With an elysian glow, 
An atmosphere without a breath, 

A softer day below. 
Like one beloved the scene had lent 

To the dark water's breast, 
Its every leaf and lineament 

With more than truth e.xprest ; 
Until an envious wind crept by. 

Like an unwelcome thought. 
Which from the mind's too faithful 
eye 

Blots one dear image out. 
Tho' thou art ever fair and kind, 

The forests ever green, 
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind, 

Than calm in waters seen. 

CANCELLED PASSAGE. 

Were not the crocuses that grew 

Under that ilex-tree 
As beautiful in scent and hue 

As ever fed the bee ? 



WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE. 

Ariel to Miranda. — Take 

The slave of Music, for the sake 

Of him who is the slave of thee. 

And teach it all the harmony 

In which thou canst, and only thou, 

Make the delighted spirit glow. 

Till joy denies itself again, 

And, too intense, is turned to pain ; 

For by permission and command 

Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 

Poor Ariel sends this silent token 

Of more than ever can be spoken ; 

Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who, 

From life to life, must still pursue 

Your happiness ; — for thus alone 

Can Ariel ever find his own. 

From Prospero's enchanted cell. 

As the mighty verses tell, 

To the throne" of Naples, he 

Lit you o'er the trackless sea. 

Flitting on, your prow before. 

Like a living meteor. 

When you die, the silent Moon, 

In her interlunar swoon, 

Is not sadder in her cell 

Than deserted Ariel. 

When you live again on earth, 

Like an unseen star of birth, 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life from your nativity. 



453 TO JANE: "THE KEEN STARS WERE TWINKLING.' 



Many changes have been run, 
Since Ferdinand and you begun 
Your course of love, and Ariel still 
Has trackt your steps, and served 

your will ; 
Now, in humbler, happier lot, 
This is all remembered not ; * 
And now, alas ! the poor sprite is 
Imprisoned, for some fault of his. 
In a body like a grave ; — 
From you he onlj- dares to crave, 
For his service and his sorrow, 
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought. 
To echo all harmonious thought, 
Felled a tree, while on the steep 
The woods were in their winter sleep, 
Rockt in that repose divine 
On the wind-swept Apennine ; 
And dreaming, some of Autumn past. 
And some of Spring approaching fast, 
And some of April buds and showers, 
And some of songs in July bowers, 
And all of love ; and so this tree, — 
O that such our death may be !— 
Died in sleep and felt no pain, 
To live in happier form again : 
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest 

star, 
The artist wrought this loved Guitar, 
And taught it justly to reply, 
To all who question skilfully, 
In language gentle as thine own ; 
AVhispering in enamoured tone 
Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 
And summer winds in sylvan cells ; 
For it had learnt all harmonies 
Of the plains and of the skies. 
Of the forests and the mountains, 
And the many-voiced fountains ; 
The clearest echoes of the hills. 
The softest notes of falling rills, 
The melodies of birds and bees, 
The murmuring of siimmer seas. 
And pattering rain, and breathing 

dew, 
And airs of evening ; and it knew 
That seldom-heard mysterious sound, 
Wliicli, driven on its diurnal round 
As it floats thro' boundless day, 
Our world enkindles on its way — 
All this it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 
The spirit that inhabits it ; 
It talks according to the wit 
Of its companions ; and no more 
Is heard than has been felt before. 
By ftiose who tempt it to betray 
These secrets of an elder day : 
But sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of perfect skill, 



It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
For oiu" beloved Jane alone. 

TO JANE: "THE KEEN STARS: 
WERE TWINKLING." 



The keen stars were twinkling, 
And the fair moon was rising amoD; 
them, 
Dear Jane ! 
The guitar was tinkling, 
But the notes were not sweet till yd 
sung them 
Again. 



As the moon's soft splendor 

O'er the faint cold starlight of heave( 

Is thrown, 

So your voice most tender 

To the strings without soul had thei 

given 

Its own. 

III. 

The stars will awaken, 

Tho' the moon sleep a full hour later,- 

To-night ; 

No leaf will be shaken 

Whilst the dews of your melody scati 

ter 

Delight. 



Tho' the sound overpowers. 
Sing again, with your dear voice re^ 
vealing 

A tone 
Of some world far from ours. 
Where music and moonlight and feel| 
ing 
Are one. 

A DIRGE. 

Rough wind, that meanest loud 

Grief too sad for song ; 
Wild wind, when sullen cloud 

Knells all the night long : 
Sad storm, whose tears are vain, 
Bare woods, whose branches stain, 
Deep caves and dreary main, 

Wail, for the world's wrong ! 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OBI 
LERICI. 

She left me at the silent time 
When the moon had ceast to climb 



EPITAPH. 



45:3 



The azure path of Heaven's steep, 
And like an albatross asleep, 
Balanced on her wings of light. 
Hovered in tJie purple night, 
Ere she sought her ocean nest 
In the chambers of the West. 
She left me, and I stayed alone 
Thinking over every tone 
Which, tho' silent to the ear, 
The enchanted heart could hear, 
Like notes which die when born, but 

still 
Haunt the echoes of the hill ; 
And feeling ever — oh, too much ! — 
The soft vibration of her touch, 
As if her gentle hand, even now. 
Lightly trembled on my brow ; 
And thus, altho' she absent were, 
Memory gave me all of her 
That even Fancy dares to claim :— 
Her presence had made weak and 

tame 
All passions, and 1 lived alone 
In the time which is our own ; 
The past and future were forgot, 
As they had been, and would be, not. 
But soon, the guardian angel gone. 
The demon reassumed his throne 
In my faint heart. I dare not speak 
My thoughts, but thus disturbed and 

weak 
I sat and saw the vessels glide 
Over the ocean bright and wide, 
Like spirit-winged chariots sent 
O'er some serenest element 
For ministrations strange and far ; 
As if to some Elysian star 
Sailed for drink to medicine 
Such sweet and bitter pain as mine. 
And the wind that winged their flight 
From the land came fresh and light, 
And the .scent of winged flowens, 
And the coolness of the hours 
Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day, 
Were scattered o'er the twinkling bay. 
And the fisher with his lamp 
And spear about the low rocks damp 
Crept, and struck the fish which came 
To worship the delusive flame. 
Too happy they, whose pleasure sought 
Extinguishes all sense and thought 
Of the regret that pleasure leaves. 
Destroying life alone, not peace ! 



LINES 



WE MEET NOT AS WE 
PARTED." 



We meet not as we parted. 

We feel more than all may see. 
My bosom is heavy-hearted, 



And thine full of doubt for me. 
One moment has bound the free. 



That moment is gone forever, 
Like lightning that flasht and died. 

Like a snowflake upon the river. 
Like a sunbeam upon the tide, 
Which the dark sliadows hide. 



That moment from time was singled 
As the first of a life of pain. 

The cup of its joy was mingled 
—Delusion too sweet tho' vain ! 
Too sweet to be mine again. 



Sweet lips, could my heart have hidden 
That its life was crusht by you. 

Ye would not have then forbidden 
The death which a heart so true 
Sought in your briny dew. 



Methinks too little cost 

For a moment so found, so lost ! 

THE ISLE. 

There was a little lawny islet 
By anemone and violet. 

Like mosaic, paven : 
And its roof was flowers and leaves 
Which the summer's breath enweaves 
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze 
Pierce the pines and tallest trees, 

Each a gem engraven. 
Girt by many an azure wave 
With which the clouds and mountains 
pave 

A lake's blue chasm. 

FRAGMENT : TO THE MOON. 

Bright wanderer, fair coquette of 

heaven. 
To whom alone it has been given 
To change and be adored for ever. 
Envy not this dim world, for never 
But once within its shadows grew 
One fair as 

EPITAPH. 

These are two friends whose lives were 

undivided ; 
So let their memory be, now they have 

glided 



454 



HOMER S HYMN TO MERCURY. 



Under the grave ; let not their bones 
be parted, 

For their two hearts in life were single- 
hearted. 

TRANSLATIONS. 

HYMN TO MERCURY. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF 

HOMER. 

I. 

Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of 

Jove, 
The Herald-child, king of Arcadia 
And all its pastoral hills, whom in 

sweet love 
Having been interwoven, modest 

May 
Bore Heaven's dread Supreme— an an- 
tique grove 
Shadowed the cavern where the 

lovers lay 
In the deep night, unseen by Gods or 

Men, 
And wliite-armed Juno slumbered 

sweetly then. 

II. 

Now, when the joy of Jove had its ful- 
filling, 
And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled 
her relief, 
She gave to light a babe all babes ex- 
celling, 
A schemer subtle beyond all belief ; 
A sheplierd of thin dreams, a cow- 
stealiiig, 
A night-watching, and door-waylay- 
ing thief, 
vV'ho 'mongst the Gods was soon about 

to thieve. 
And other glorious actions to achieve. 



The babe was born at the first peep of 
day ; 
He began playing on the lyre at noon, 
And the same evening did he steal 
away 
Apollo's herds ;— the fourth day of 
the moon 
On which him bore the venerable May, 
From her immortal limbs he leapt 
full soon. 
Nor long could in the sacred cradle 

keep, 
But out to seek Apollo's herds would 
creep. 



IV. 

Out of the lofty cavern wandering 
He found a tortoise, and cried out — 
" A treasure !" 
(For Mercury first made the tortoise 
sing) 
The beast before the portal at his 
leisure 
The flowery herbage was depasturing. 
Moving his feet in a deliberate meas- 
ure 
Over the turf. Jove's profitable son 
Eyeing him laught, and laughing thus 
begun :— 

V. 

" A useful god-send are you to me now, 
King of the dance, companion of the 
feast. 
Lovely in all your nature ! "Welcome, 
you 
Excellent plaything ! Where, sweet 
mountain beast. 
Got you that speckled shell ? Thus 
much I know. 
You must come home with me and 
be my guest ; 
You will give joy to me, and I will do 
All that is in my power to honor you. 

VI. 

"Better to be at home than out of 
door ; — 
So come with me, and tho' it has been 
said 
That you alive defend from magic 
power, 
I know you will sing sweetly when 
you 're dead." 
Thus having spoken, the quaint infant 
bore. 
Lifting it from the grass on which it 
fed. 
And grasping it in his delighted hold. 
His treasured prize into the cavern old. 

VII. 

Then scooping with a chisel of gray 
steel, 
He bored the life and soul out of the 
beast— 
Not swifter a swift thought of woe or 
weal 
Darts thro' the tumult of a human 
breast 
Which thronging cares annoy— not 
swifter wheel 
The flashes of its torture and unrest 



homer's hymn to MERCUIIY. 



455 



Out of the dizzy eyes— than Maia's son 
All that he did devise hath featly 
done. 

VIII. 

And thro' the tortoise's hard stony 
skin 
At proper distances small holes he 
made, 
And fastened the cut stems of reeds 
within, 
And with a piece of leather overlaid 
The open space and ftxt the cubits 
in. 
Fitting the bridge to both, and stretcht 

o'er all 
Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhyth- 
mical. 



When he had wrought the lovely in- 
strument, 
He tried the chords, and made divi- 
sion meet 
Preluding with the plectrum, and there 
went 
Up from beneath his hand a tumult 
sweet 
Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he 
sent 
A strain of unpremeditated wit 
Joyous and wild and wanton — such j'ou 

may 
Hear among revellers on a holiday. 

X. 

He sung how Jove and May of the 

bright sandal 
Dallied in love not quite legitimate ; 
And his own birth, still scoffing at the 

scandal, 
And naming his own name, did cele- 
brate ; 
His mother's cave and servant maids 

he planned all 
In plastic verse, her household stuff 

and state, 
Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen 

pan, — 
But singing, he conceived another 

plan. 



Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh 
meat. 
He in his sacred crib deposited 
The hollow lyre, and from the cavern 
sweet 
Rusht with great leaps up to the moun- 
tain's head. 



Revolving in his mind .some subtle 

feat 
Of thievish craft, such as a swindler 

might 
Devise in the lone season of dun night. 



Lo ! the great Sun under the ocean's 

bed has 
Driven steeds and chariot — The cliild 

meanwhile strode 
O'er the Pierian mountains clothed in 

shadows. 
Where the immortal oxen of the 

God 
Are pastured in the flowering unmown 

meadows. 
And safely stalled in a remote 

abode — 
The archer Argicide, elate and proud. 
Drove fifty from the herd, lowing 

aloud. 

XIII. 

He drove them wandering o'er the 
sandy way, 
But, being ever mindful of his craft, 
Backward and forward drove he them 
astray. 
So that the tracks which seemed be- 
fore, were aft ; 
His sandals then he threw to the ocean 
spray, 
And for each foot he wrought a kind 
of raft 
Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs, 
And bound them in a lump with withy 
twigs. 



And on his feet he tied these .sandals 
light, 
The trail of whose wide leaves might 
not betray 
His track ; and then, a self-sufficing 
wight. 
Like a man hastening on some distant 
way. 
He from Pieria's mountain bent his 
flight ; 
But an old man perceived the infant 

pass 
Down green Onchestus heapt like beds 
with grass. 

XV. 

The old man stood dressing his sunny 
vine : 
" Halloo ! old fellow with the crooked 
shoulder ! 



456 



homer's RYMNT to ISrERCURY. 



II 



You grub those stumps ? before they 
will bear wine 
Methinks even you must grow a little 
older : 

Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine. 
As you would 'scape what might ap- 
pal a bolder — 

Seeing, see not— and hearing, hear not 
— and — 

If you have understanding— under- 
stand." 



So saying, Hermes roused the oxen 
vast ; 
O'er shadowy mountain and resound- 
ing dell. 

And flower-paven plains, great Hermes 
past ; 
Till the black night divine, which 
favoring fell 

Around his steps, grew gray, and morn- 
ing fast 
Wakened the world to work, and 
from her cell 

Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sub- 
lime 

Into her watch-tower just began to 
climb. 

XVII. 

Now to Alpheus he had driven all 
The broad-foreheaded oxen of the 
Sun ; 
They came unwearied to the lofty stall 
And to the water troughs which ever 
run 
Thro' the fresh lields— and when with 
rushgrass tall, 
Lotus and all sweet herbage, every 
one 
Had pastured been, the great God made 

them move 
Towards the stall in a collected drove. 

XVIII. 

A mighty pile of wood the God then 
heapt. 
And having soon conceived the my.s- 
tery 
Of fire, from two smooth laurel 
branches stript 
The bark, and rubbed them in his 
palms, — on high 
Suddenly forth the burning vapor 
leapt. 
And the divine child saw delight- 
edly- 
Mercury first found out for human 
weal 



Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, fiini 
and steel. 



And fine dry logs and roots innumerous 
He gathered in a delve upon the|B 
ground — 

And kindled them— and instantaneous|JH 
The strength of the fierce flame was 
breathed around : 
And whilst the might of glorious Vul-i 
can thus , . 

Wrapt the great pile with glare and(f 
roaring sound, 
Hermes dragged forth two heifers,- 

lowing loud, 
Close to the fire^such might was ini 
the God. 



And on the eartk upon their backs he 

threw 
The panting beasts, and rolled them 

o'er and o'er, 
And bored their lives out. Without 

more ado 
He cut up fat and flesh, and downi 

before 
The fire, on spits of wood he placed theij^ 

two, 1 

Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all 

the gore 
Purst in the bowels ; and while this 4 

was done 
He stretcht their hides over a craggy' 

stone. 



We mortals let an ox gro^v old, and 
then !] 

Cut it up after long consideration, — I 
But joyous-minded Hermes from the]] 
glen 
Drew the fat spoils to the more open 
station 
Of a flat smooth space, and portioned J 
them ; and when } 

He had by lot assigned to each a 
ration 
Of the twelve Gods, his mind became 1 

aware 
Of all the joys which in religion are. 

XXII. 

For the sweet savor of the roasted ■ 

meat 
Tempted him tho' immortal. Nathe- 1 

less 
He checkt his haughty will and did not 

eat, 



HOMEIl S HYMN TO MERCURY. 



457 



Tho' what it cost him words can 

scarce express, 
Liid every wish to put such morsels 

sweet 
Down his most sacred tliroat, he did 

repress ; 
{ut soon within the lofty portalled 

stall 
le placed the fat and flesh and bones 

and all. 

XXIII. 

Lnd every trace of the fresh butchery 
And cooking, the God soon made dis- 
appear, 
LS if it all had vanisht thro' the sky ; 
He burned the hoofs and horns and 

head and hair, 
'he insatiate fire devoured them hun- 
grily ;— 
And when he saw that everything 

was clear, 
le quencht the coals, and ti'ampled 

the black dust, 
i.nd in the stream his bloody sandals 
tost. 

XXIV. 

lU night he workt in the serene moon- 
shine— 
But when the light of day was spread 

abroad 
le sought his natal mountain-peaks 

divine. 
■ On his long wandering, neither man 

nor god 
lad met him, since he killed Apollo's 

kine. 
Nor house-dog had barkt at him on 

his road ; 
row he obliquely thro' the keyhole 

past, 
iike a thin mist, or an autumnal blast. 

XXV. 

light thro' the temple of the spacious 

cave 
He went with soft light feet— as if 

his tread 
'ell not on earth ; no sound their fall- 
ing gave ; 
Then to his cradle he crept quick, 

and spread 
'he swaddling-clothes about him ; and 

the knave 
Lav playing with the covering of the 

■"bed 
Vith his left hand about his knees — 

the right 
leld his beloved tortoise-lyre tight. 



There he lay, innocent as a new-born 
child, 
As gossips say ; but tho' he was a 
god, 

The goddess, his fair mother, unbe- 
guiled 
Knew all that he had done being 
abroad : 

"Whence come you, and from what 
adventure wild, 
You cunning rogue, and where have 
you abode 

All the long night, clothed in your im- 
pudence "i 

What have you done since you de- 
parted hence ? 

XXVII. 

" Apollo soon will pass within this gate 
And bind your tender body in a chain 

Inextricably tight, and fast as fate, 
Unless you can delude the God again, 

Even when within his arms — ah, runa- 
gate ! 

A pretty torment both for gods and 
me.i 

Your father made when he made 
you !"— ' Dear mother," 

Replied sly Hermes, " Wherefore scold 
and bother ? 

XXVIII. 

"As if I were like other babes as old, 
And understood nothing of what is 

what ; 
And cared at all to hear my mother 

scold. 
I in my subtle brain a scheme have 

got. 
Which whilst the sacred stars round 

Heaven are rolled 
Will profit you and me — nor shall our 

lot 
Be as you counsel, without gifts or 

food. 
To spend our lives in this obscure 

abode. 

XXIX. 

"But we will leave this shadow- 
peopled cave 
And live among the Gods, and pass 
each day 

In high communion, sharing what they 
have 
Of profuse wealth and unexhausted 
prey ; 

And from the portion which my father 
gave 



458 



homer's hymn to mercury. 



To Phcebus, I will snatch my share 

away, 
Which if my father will not— natheless 

I, 
Who am the king of robbers, can but 

try. 

XXX. 

" And, if Latona's son should find me 

out, 
I'll countermine him by a deeper 

plan ; 
I'll pierce the Pythian temple-walls, 

tho' stout, 
And sack the fane of every thing I 

can — 
Caldrd^is and tripods of great worth 

no doubt. 
Each golden cup and polisht brazen 

pan, 
All the wrought tapestries and gar- 
ments gay." — 
So they together talkt ;— meanwhile 

the Day, 

SXXI. 

Ethereal born, arose out of the flood 
Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to 
men. 
Apollo past toward the sacred wood. 
Which from the inmost depths of its 
green glen 
Echoes the voice of Neptune,— and 
there stood 
On the same spot in green Onchestus 
then 
That §ame old animal, tlie vine- 
dresser. 
Who was employed hedging his vine- 
yard there. 



Latona's glorious Son began :— " I pray 
Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus 
green. 
Whether a drove of kine has past this 
way. 
All heifers with crookt horns ? for 
they have been 
Stolen from the hei'd in high Pieria, 
Where a black bull was fed apart, 
between 
Two woody mountains in a neighbor- 
ing glen. 
And four fierce dogs watcht there, 
unanimous as men. 

XXXIII. 

"And what is strange, the author of 
this theft 



Has stolen the fatted heifers, everj 

one. 

But the four dogs and the black bul, 

are left ; — ' 

Stolen they were last night at set o;[ 

sun, . 

Of their .soft beds and their sweet fooq 

bereft — 

Now tell me, man born ere the worldi 

begun, ' 

Have you seen any one pass with th«i 

cows ? " — 

To whom the man of overhanginji) 
brows : 

XXXIV. ' 

"My friend, it would require no cpmi 
mon skill 
Justly to speak of everything I see : 
On various purposes of good or ill 
Many pass by my vineyard, — and t(t 
me 
'T is difficult to know the invisible 
Thoughts, which in all those manj 
minds may be : — 
Thus much alone I certainly can say, 
I tilled these vines till the decline o 
day, 

XXXV. 

" And then I thought I saw, but darci| 
not speak 
With certainty of such a wondrousi 
thing, 
A child, who could not have been borrj 
a week, 

Tho.se fair-horned cattle closely fol*| 
lowing. 
And in his hand he held a polisht stick 
And, as on purpose, he walkt waver 
ing I 

From one side to the other of the road. | 
And with his face opposed the steps hf i 
trod." 

XXXVI. 

Apollo hearing this, past quickly on— 
No winged omen could have showE 
more clear 
That the deceiver was his father's son. 
So the God wraps a purple atmos- 
phere 
Around his shoulders, and like fire is; 
gone 
To famous Pylos, seeking his kine 
there, 
And found their track and his, yei 

hardly cold. 
And cried— "What wonder do mine 
eyes behold ! 



HOMER S HYMN TO INIERCURY. 



459 



xxxvir. 

' Here are the footsteps of the horned 

herd 
Turned back towards their fields of 
asphodel ; — 
But these ! are not the tracks of beast 
or bird, 
Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell, 
3r maned Centaur — sand was never 
stirred 
By man or woman thus ! Inexpli- 
cable ! 
Who with unwearied feet could e'er 

impress 
riie sand with such enormous vestiges ? 

XXXVIII. 

' That was most strange — but this is 
stranger still ! " 
Thus having said, Phoebus impetu- 
ously 

sought high Cyllene's forest-cinctured 
hill, 
And the deep cavern where dark 
shadows lie, 

Ind where the ambrosial nymph with 
happy will 
Bore the Saturnian's love-child, Mer- 
cury— 

\nd a delightful odor from the dew 

Df the hill pastures, at his coming, 
flew. 



Vnd Phoebus stoopt under the craggy 
roof 
Archt over the dark cavern :— Maia's 
child 
'erceived that he came angry, far 
aloof. 
About the cows of which he had been 
beguiled, 
Vnd over him the fine and fragrant 
woof 
Of his ambrosial swadding clothes he 
piled— 
^s among fire-brands lies a burning 
I spark 

.overed, beneath the ashes cold and 
dark. 



'?here, like an infant who had suckt 

his fill 
And now was newly washt and put 

to bed, 
Vwake, but courting sleep with weary 

will, 
' And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, 

and head, 



He lay, and his beloved tortoise still 
He graspt and held under his shoul- 
der-blade. 

Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess 
knew, 

Not less her subtle, swindling baby, 
who 



Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round 
every crook 
Of the ample cavern, for his kine, 
Apollo 

Lookt sharp ; and when he saw them 
not, he took 
The glittering key, and opened three 
great hollow 

Recesses in the rock — where many a 
nook 
Was filled with the sweet food im- 
mortals swallow. 

And mighty heaps of silver and of 
gold 

Were piled within— a wonder to be- 
hold ! 



And white and silver robes, all over- 
wrought 
With cunning workmanship of trac- 
ery sweet— 

Except among the Gods there can be 
naught 
In the wild world to be compared 
with it. 

Latona's offspring, after having sought 
His herds in every corner, thus did 
greet 

Great Hermes : — ' ' Little cradled rogue, 
declare 

Of my illustrious heifers, where they 
are ! 



XLIII. 

" Speak quickly ! or a quarrel between 
us 
Must rise, and the event will be, that 
I 
Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus, 
In fiery gloom to dwell eternally ; 
Nor shall your father nor your mother 
loose 
The bars of that black dungeon- 
utterly 
You shall be cast out from the light of 

day. 
To rule the ghosts of men, unblest as 
they " 



4G0 



HOMEK S HYMN TO MERCURY. 



XLIV. 

To whom thus Hermes slily answei-ed : 

—"Son 
Of great Latona, what a speech is 

this ! 
Why come you here to ask me what is 

done 
With the wild oxen which it seems 

you miss ? 
I have not seen them, nor from any 

one 
Have heard a word of the whole 

business ; 
If you should promise an immense re- 
ward, 
I could not tell more than you now have 

heard. 

XLV. 

" An ox-stealer should be both tall and 

strong, 
And I am but a little new-born thing. 
Who, yet at least, can think of nothing 

wrong :— 
My business is to suck, and sleep, 

and fling 
The cradle-clothes about me all day 

long,— 
Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother 

sing, 
And to be washt in water clean and 

warm, 
And husht and kist and kept secure 

from harm. 

XLVl. 

"O, let not e'er this quarrel be aver- 
red ! 
The astounded Gods would laugh at 
vou, if e'er 
You should allege a story so absurd. 
As that a new-born infant forth could 
fare 
Out of his home after a savage herd. 
I was born yesterday—my small feet 
are 
Too tender for the roads so hard and 

rough :— 
And if you think that this is not 
enough, 

XLVII. 

"I swear a great oath, by my father's 
head. 
That I stole not your cows, and that 
I know 
Of no one else who might, or could, or 
did.— 
Whatever things cows are, I do not 
know, 



For I have only heard the name."— 
This said. 
He winkt as fast as could be, and his 
brow 

Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave 
he. 

Like one who hears some strange ab- 
surdity. 



Apollo gently smiled and said -.—"Aye, 

aye,— 
Y"ou cunning little rascal, you will 

bore 
Many a rich man's house, and your 

array 
Of thieves will lay their siege before 

his door, 
Silent as night, in night ; and many a i 

day 
In the wild glens rough shepherds-! 

will deplore '• 

That you or yours, liaving an appetite, ,| 
Met with their cattle, comrade of the^, 

night ! 



"And this among the Gods shall be; 
your gift. 
To be considered as the lord of those 
Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, , 
and shop-lift ; — J 

But now, if you would not your lastl 
sleep doze ; 
Crawl out '."—Thus saying, Phoebus j 
did uplift 
The subtle infant in his swaddling- 
clothes. 
And in his arms, according to his wont, i 
A scheme devised the illustrious Argi-1 
phont. 



And sneezed and shuddered— Phoebus 
on the grass 
Him threw, and whilst all that he hatl 
designed 
He did perform— eager altho' to pass, 

Apollo darted from his mighty mindj 
Towards the subtle babe the following 

scoff :— 
" Do not imagine this will get you off, 

LI. ^ 

"You little swaddled child of Jove and] 
May !" D 

And seized him :— " By this omeii 1|A 
shall trace 



HOMEU S HYMN TO MEKCUKY. 



461 



y noble herds, and you shall lead the 
way."— 

Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy 
place, 

ke one in earnest haste to get away, 

Rose, and with hands lifted towards 
his face 

3und both his ears— up from his shoul- 
ders drew 

is swaddling clothes, and— "What 
mean you to do 

Lll. 

With me, you unkind Grod ? " said 

Mercury : 
" Is it about these cows you tease me 

so? 
wish the race of cows were per- 
ished! I 
Stole not your cows— I do not even 

know 
'hat things cows are. Alas ! I well 

may sigh. 
That since I came into this world of 

woe, 
should have ever heard the name of 

one — 
ut I appeal to the Saturnian's throne." 

LIII. 

tius Phoebus and the vagrant Mercury 

Talkt without coming to an explana- 
tion, 

""ith adverse purpose. As for Phoe- 
bus, he 

Sought not revenge, but only infoi*- 
mation, 

nd Hermes tried with lies and 
roguery 

To cheat Apollo.— But when no 
evasion 

3rved— f or the cunning one his match 
had found — 

e paced on first over the sandy 
ground. 



He of the Silver Bow the child of 

Jove 
ollowed behind, till to their heavenly 

Sire 
Came both his children— beautiful 

as Liove, 
nd from his equal balance did require 
A judgment in the cause wherein 

they strove. 
'er odoi'ous Olympus and its snows 
. murmuring tumult as they came 

arose,— 



LV. 

And from the folded depths of the 
great Hill, 
While Hermes and Apollo reverent 
stood 

Before Jove's throne, the indestruc- 
tible 
Immortals rusht in mighty multi- 
tude ; 

And whilst their seats in order due 
they fill, 
The lofty Thunderer in a careless 
mood 

To Phoebus said :— " Whence drive you 
this sweet prey, 

This herald-baby, born but yester- 
day ?— 



"A most important subject, trlfler, 
this 
To lay before the Gods ! "— " Nay, 
father, nay. 
When you have understood the busi- 
ness. 
Say not that I alone am fond of prey. 
I found this little boy in a recess 
Under Cyllene's mountains far 
away— 
A manifest and most apparent thief, 
A scandal-monger beyond all belief. 



" I never saw his like either in heaven 
Or upon earth for knavery or craft :— 
Out of the field my cattle yester-even, 
By the low shore on which the loud 
sea laught. 
He right down to the river-ford had 
driven ; 
And mere astonishment would make 
you daft 
To see the double kind of footsteps 

strange 
He has imprest wherever he did range. 



"The cattle's track on the black dust, 
full well 
Is evident, as if frhey went towards 
The place from which they came — that 
asphodel 
Meadow, in which I feed my many 
herds, — 
His steps were most incomprehensi- 
ble - 
I know not how I can descrilH' in 
words 



463 



HOMER S HY]MN TO MERCURY, 



Those tracks— he could have gone 

along the sands 
Neither upon his feet nor on his 

hands ;— 



" He must have had some other 
stranger mode 
Of moving on : those vestiges im- 
mense, 
Far as I traced them on the sandy 
road, 
Seemed like the trail of oak-top- 
pings : — but thence 
No mark nor track denoting where 
they trod 
The hard ground gave : — but, work- 
ing at his fence, 
A mortal hedger saw him as he past 
To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste. 

LX. 

" I found that in the dark he quietly 
Had sacrificed some cows, and before 
light 
Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly 
About the road — then, still as gloomy 
night. 
Had crept into his cradle, either eye 
Rubbing, and cogitating some new 
sleight. 
No eagle could have seen him as he lay 
Hid in his cavern from the peering day. 



" I taxt him with the fact, when he 
averred 
Most solemnly that he did neither see 
Nor even had in any manner heard 
Of my lost cows, whatever things 
cows be ; 
Nor could he tell, tho' offered a reward, 
Not even who could tell of them to 
me." 
So speaking, Phoebus sate ; and 

Hermes then 
Addrest the Supreme Lord of Gods 
and men : — 

LXII. 

"Great Father, you know clearly be- 
forehand 
That all which I shall say to you is 
sooth ; 
I am a most veracious person, and 

Totally unacquainted with untruth. 
At sunrise, Phcebus came, but with no 
band 
Of Gods to bear him witness, in great 
wrath. 



To my abode, seeking his heifers then 
And saying that I must show hh 
where they are, 



"Or he would hurl me down the dar 
abyss. 

I know that every Apollonian limb i 
Is clothed with speed and might an 
manliness. 
As a green bank with flowers— bi 
unlike him 
I was born yesterday, and you mai 
guess 
He well knew this when he indulge 
the whim 
Of bullying a poor little new-born thini 
That slept, and never thought of cow 
driving. 

LXIV. 

"Am I like a strong fellow who steali 

kine ? 
Believe me, dearest Father, such yoi 

are. 
This driving of the herds is none c 

mine ; 
Across my threshold did I wande 

ne'er. 
So may I thrive ! I reverence the d 

vine 
Sun and the Gods, and I love yoi 

and care 
Even for this hard accuser— who mus 

know 
I am as innocent as they or you. 

LXV. 

" I swear by these most gloriouslj^ 

wrought portals— 
(It is, you will allow, an oath oj 

might) 
Thro' which the multitude of the Im 

mortals 
Pass and repass for ever, day an' 

night. 
Devising schemes for the affairs o 

mortals — 
That I am guiltless ; and I will re 

quite, 
Altho' mine enemy be great and strong 
His cruel threat— do thou defend th 

young ! " 



So speaking, the Cyllenian Aigiphont i 
Winkt, as if now his adversary wa' 
fitted :— 
And Tupiter according to his wont, 



HOMER S HYMN TO MERCURY. 



463 



Laught heartilj' to hear the subtle- 
witted 

ifaiit give a plausible account, 

And every word a lie. But he re- 
mitted 

iidgment at present— and his exhorta- 
tion ' 

/"as, to compose the afTair by arbitra- 
tion. 

LXVII. 

nd they by mighty Jupiter were bid- 
den 

To go forth with a single purpose 
both, 

either the other chiding nor yet chid- 
den : 

And Mercury with innocence and 
truth 

lead the way, and show where had 
hidden 

The mighty heifers. — Hermes, noth- 
ing loth, 

beyed the ^Egis-bearer's will— for he 

able to persuade all easily. 

LXVIII. 

hese lovely children of Heaven's high 

est Lord 
Hastened to Pylos and the pastures 

wide 
nd lofty stalls by the Alphean ford, 
Where wealth in the mute night is 

multiplie(? 
7ith silent growth. Whilst Hermes 

drove the herd 
Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus 

spied 
he hides of those the little babe had 

slain, 
tretcht on the precipice above the 

• plain. 
I 

LXIX. 

How was it possible," then Phoebus 

said, 
"That you, a little child, born yes- 
terday, 
thing on mother's milk and kisses 

fed, 
, Could two prodigious heifers ever 

flay! 
ven I myself may well hereafter 

dread 
Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian 

May, 
Then you grow strong and tall."— He 

spoke, and bound 
tiff withy bands the infant's wrists 

around. 



He might as well have bound the oxen 

wild ; 
The withy bands, though starkly in- 

terknit, 
Fell at the feet of the immortal child, 
Loosened bj' some device of his quick 

wit. 
Phoebus perceived himself again be- 
guiled. 
And stared — while Hermes sought 

some hole or pit, 
Looking askance and winking fast as 

thought, 
Where he might hide himself and not 

be caught. 

LXXI. 

Sudden he changed his plan, and with 

strange skill 
Subdued the strong Latonian, by the 

might 
Of winning music, to his mightier will ; 
His left hand held the lyre, and in 

his right 
The plectrum struck the chords— un- 
conquerable 
Up from beneath his hand in circling 

flight 
The gathering music rose — and sweet 

as Love 
The penetrating notes did live and 

move 



Within the heart of great Apollo.— He 
Listened with all his soul, and laught 
for pleasure. 
Close to his side stood harping fear- 
lessly 
The unabashed boy ; and to the 
measure 
Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud 
and free 
His joyous voice ; for he unlockt the 
treasure 
Of his deep song, illustrating the birth 
Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert 
Earth : 

Lxxiir. 

And how to the Immortals every one 

A portion was assigned of all that is ; 
But chief Mnemosyne did Maia's son 
Clothe in the light of his loud melo- 
dies ; — 
And as each God was born or had be- 
gun 
He in their order due and fit degrees 



464 



HOMER S HYMN TO MERCURY. 



Sung of his birth and being — and did 

move 
Apollo to unutterable love. 

LXXIV. 

These words were winged with his 

swift delight : 
"Y'ou heifer-stealing schemer, well do 

you 
Deserve that lift}' oxen should requite 
Such minstrelsies as I have heard 

even now. 
Comrade of feasts, little contriving 

wight, 
One of your .secrets I would gladly 

know, 
Whether the glorious power you now 

show forth 
Was folded up within you at your birth, 

LXXV. 

" Or whether mortal taught or God in- 
spired 
The power of unpremeditated song ? 
Many divinest sounds have I admired, 
The Olympian Gods and mortal men 
among ; 
But such a strain of wondrous, strange, 
untired, 
And soul-awakening music, sweet 
and strong, 
Yet did I never hear except from thee, 
Offspring of May, impostor Mercury ! 

LXXVI. 

"What Muse, what skill, what unim- 

agined use. 
What exercise of subtlest art, has 

given 
Thy songs such power ? — for those who 

hear may choose 
From three, the choicest of the gifts 

of Heaven, 
Delight, and love, and sleep,— sweet 

sleep, whose dews 
Are sweeter than the balmy tears of 

even : — 
And I, who speak this praise, am that 

Apollo 
Whom the Olympian Muses ever fol- 
low : 

LXXVII. 

" And their delight is dance and the 
blithe noise 
Of song and overflowing poesy ; 
And sweet, even as desire, the liquid 
voice 
Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrill- 
ingly ; 



But never did my inmost soul rejoict 

In this dear work of youthful revelrj 

As now. I wonder at thee, son o:, 

Jove ; * 

Thy harpings and thy .song are soft a; 

love. , 



" Now since thou hast, altho' so verj 

small. 
Science of arts .so glorious, thus ; 

swear. 
And let this cornel javelin, keen an(j 

tall, 
Witness between us what I promist 

here, — ! 

That I will lead thee to the Olympiai 

Hall, 
Honored and mighty, with thy 

mother dear, 
And many glorious gifts in joy wil 

give thee. 
And even at the end will ne'er deceivd 

thee." 



To whom thus Mercury with pruden 

speech :— 
" Wisely hast thou inquired of mj 

skill : 
I envy thee no thing I know to teach 
Even this day :— f or both in word ana 

will * 

I would be gentle with thee ; thoi. 

canst reach 
All things in thy wise spirit, and thj 

sill ^ 

Is highest in heaven among the soni 

of Jove, 
Who loves thee in the fulness of hi; 

love. 



LXXX. 



"The Councellor Supreme has givei 
thee 
Divinest gifts, out of the amplitudi 
Of his profuse exhaustless treasury 
By thee, 't is said, the depths are un 
derstood 
Of his far voice ; by thee the myster: 
Of all oracular fates,— and the dread 
mood 
Of the diviner is breathed up, even I- 
A child— perceive thy might and majl^ 
esty— 

LXXXI. 

" Thou canst seek out and compass al 
that wit 
Can find or teach ;— yet since thoi 
wilt, come take 



HOMER S HYMN TO MERCURY. 



4G5 



he lyre — be mine the glory giving it — 
[ Strike the sweet chords, and sing 

aloud, and wake 
hy joyous pleasure out of many a fit 
Of tranced sound— and with fleet 

fingers make 
hy liquid-voiced comrade talk with 

thee, — 
J can talk measured music eloquently. 



Then bear it boldly to the revel 

loud, 
Love-wakening dance, or feast of 
solemn state, 

- joy by night or day— for those en- 
dowed 

With art and wisdom who interro- 
gate 

: teaches, babbling in delightful mood 

1 All things which make the spirit 
most elate, 

oothing the mind with sweet familiar 
play, 

basing the heavy shadows of dismay. 



To those who are unskilled in its 

sweet tongue, 
Tho' they should question most im- 

I petuously 

IS hidden soul, it gossips something 

I wrong- 
Some senseless and impertinent re- 
ply- 

;ut thou who art as wise as thou art 

, strong 

' Canst compass all that thou desir- 

, est. I 

resent thee with this music-flowing 
shell, 

Inowing thou canst interrogate it 

well. 

I 

LXXXIV. 

■ And let us two henceforth together 

feed 
On this green mountain slope and 

pastoral plain, 
'he herds in litigation— they will breed 
Quickly enough to recompense our 

pain, 
f to the bulls and cows we take good 

heed ;— 
And thou, tho' somewhat over fond 

of gain, 
rrudge me not half the profit." — Hav- 
ing spoke, 
'he shell he proffered, and Apollo 

took. 



LXXXV. 

And gave him in return the glittering 

lash. 
Installing him as herdsman ; — from 

the look 
Of Mercury then laught a joyous flash. 
And then Apollo with the plectrum 

strook 
The chords, and from beneath his 

hands a crash 
Of mighty sounds rusht up, whose 

music shook 
The soul with sweetness, and like an 

adept 
His sweeter voice a just accordance 

kept. 

LXXXVI. 

The herd went wandering o'er the 

divine mead, 
Whilst these most beautiful Sons of 

Jupiter 
Won their swift way up to the snowy 

head 
Of white Olympus, with the joyous 

lyre 
Soothing their journey ; and their 

father dread 
Crathered them both into familiar 
Affection sweet,— and then, and now, 

and ever, 
Hermes must love Him of the Golden 

.Quiver, 



To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly 

sounded, 
Which skilfully he held and played 

thereon. 
He piped the while, and far and wide 

rebounded 
The echo of his pipings ; every one 
Of the Olympians sat with joy astound- 
ed, 
While he conceived another piece of 

fun. 
One of his old tricks— which the God 

of Day 
Perceiving, said :— " I fear thee, Son 

of May ; — 

LXXXVIII. 

" I fear thee and thy sly chameleon 
spirit, 
Lest thou should steal my lyre and 
crooked bow ; 
This glory and power thou dost from 
Jove inherit. 
To teach all craft upon the earth be- 
low ; 



3° 



4GG 



HOMER S HYMN TO MERCURY. 



Thieves love and worship thee — it is 

thy merit 
To make all mortal business ebb and 

flow 
By roguery : — now, Hermes, if you 

dare, 
By sacred Styx a mighty oath to 

swear 

LXXXIX. 

" That you will never rob me, vou will 

do 
A thing extremely pleasing to my 

heart." 
Then Mercury swai'e by the Stygian 

dew, 
That he would never steal his bow or 

dart, 
Or lay his hands on what to him was 

due. 
Or ever would employ his powerful 

art 
Against his Pythian fane. Then Phoe- 
bus swore 
There was no God or man whom he 

loved more. 

xc. 

" And I will give thee as a good-will 

token. 
The beautiful wand of wealth and 

happiness ; 
A perfect three-leaved rod of gold un- 
broken, > 
Whose magic avIII thy footsteps ever 

bless ; 
And whatsoever by Jove's voi«e is 

spoken 
Of earthly or divine from its recess, 
It, like a loving soul, to thee will 

speak, 
And more than this, do thou forbear to 

seek. 

xci. 

"For, dearest child, the divinations 
high 
Which thou requirest, 't is unlawful 
ever 
That £hou, or any other deity 
Should understand — and vain were 
the endeavor ; 
For they are hidden in Jove's mind, 
and I 
In trust of them, have sworn that I 
would never 
Betray the counsels of Jove's inmost 

will 
To any God— the oath was terrible. 



XCII. 

"Then, golden-wanded brother, ask 
me not , 

To speak the fates by Jupiter de- 
signed ; i 
But be it mine to tell their various loti' 
To the unnumbered tribes of human 
kind. 
Let good to these, and ill to those bei 
wrought 
As I dispense — but he who comesl 
consigned ] 
By voice and wings of perfect augury 
To my great shrine, shall find avail in' 
me. 

XCIII. ' 

" Him will I not deceive, but will as- 
sist ; 
But he who comes relying on such; 
birds 
As chatter vainly, who would strair; 
and twist 
The purpose of the Gods with idk 
words, 
And deems their knowledge light, he 
shall have misst 
His road— whilst I among my other 
hoards 
His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May^ 
I have another wondrous thing to say, 

XOiV. j 

" There are three Fates, three virgirj 

Sisters, wko I 

Rejoieing in tbeir wind-outspeeding' 

wings, 
Their heads wLth flour snowed ovei^ 

white and new. 
Sit in a vale round which Parnassui 

flings 
Its circling skirts— from these I hav( 

learned true 
Vaticinations of remotest things. 
My father cared not. Whilst the. 

search out dooms, 
They sit apart and feed on honey 

combs. 

xcv. 

" They, having eaten the fresh honey 
grow 
Drimk with divine enthusiasm, an( 
utter 
With earnest willingness the trutl 
they know ; 
But if deprived of that sweet food 
they mutter 
All plausible delusions ; — these to yoi 



homer's fivmn to the moon. 



4G7 



I give ;— if you inquire, they will not 

stutter : 
delight your own soul with them : — 

any man 
fou would instruct may profit if he 

can. 

XCVI. 

' Take these and the fierce oxen, Maia's 

child— 
O'er many a horse and toil-enduring 

mule, 
3'er jagged-jawed lions, and the wild 
White-tusked boars, o'er all, by field 

or pool, 
3f cattle which the mighty Mother 

mild 
Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt 

rule — 
Thou dost alone the veil from death 

uplift — 
rhou givest not— yet this is a great 

gift." 



Thus King Apollo loved the child of 

May 
In truth, and Jove covered their love 

with joy, 
Hermes with Gods and men even from 

that day 
Mingled, and wrought the latter 

much annoy, 
And little profit, going far astray 
Thro' the dun night. Farewell, de- 
lightful Boy, 
Of Jove and Maia sprung,— never by 

me. 
Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unre- 

membered be. 

HOMER'S HYMN TO CASTOR AND 
POLLUX. 

Ye wild-eyed Muses, sing the Twins 

of Jove, 
Whom the fair-ankled Leda, mixt in 

love 
With mighty Saturn's heaven-obscur- 
ing Child, 
On Taygetus, that lofty mountain 

wild. 
Brought forth in joy, mild Pollux void 

of blame. 
And steed-subduing Castoi*, heirs of 

fame. 
These are the Powers who earth-born 

mortals save 
And ships, whose flight is swift along 

the wave. 



When wintry tempests o'er the savage 
sea 

Are raging, and the sailors tremblingly 

Call on the Twins of Jove with prayer 
and vow. 

Gathered in fear upon the lofty prow, 

And sacrifice with snow-white lambs, 
the wind 

And the huge billow bursting close be- 
hind, 

Even then beneath the weltering 
waters bear 

The staggering ship— they suddenly 
appear. 

On yellow wings rushing athwart the 
sky. 

And lull the blasts in mute tranquil- 
lity, 

And strew the waves on the white 
ocean's bed. 

Fair omen of the voyage ; from toil 
and dread. 

The sailors rest, rejoicing in the sight, 

And plough the quiet sea in safe de- 
light. 

HOMER'S HYMN TO THE MOON. 

Daughters of Jove, whose voice is 
melody. 

Muses, who know and rule all min- 
strelsy ! 

Sing the wide-winged Moon. Around 
the earth, 

From her immortal head in Heaven 
shot forth, 

Far light is scattered— boundless glory 
springs ; 

Where'er she spi'eads her many-beam- 
ing wings 

The lampless air glows round her 
golden crown. 

But when the Moon divine from 
Heaven is gone 

Under the sea, her beams within abide. 

Till, bathing her bright limbs in 
Ocean's tide. 

Clothing her form in garments glitter- 
ing far, 

And having yoked to her immortal 
car 

The beam-invested steeds, whose necks 
on high 

Curve back, she drives to a remoter 
sky 

A western Crescent, borne impetu- 
ously. 

Then is made full the circle of her 
light, 

And as she grows, her beams more 
bright and bright, 



468 



HOMER S HYMN TO THE SUN. 



Are poured from Heaven, where she is 

hovering then, 
A wonder and a sign to mortal men. 

The Son of Saturn with this glorious 

Power 
Mingled in love and sleep — to whom 

she bore, 
Pandeia, a bright maid of beauty rare 
Among the Gods, whose lives etei'nal 

are. 

Hail Queen, great Moon, white- 
armed Divinity, 
Fair-haired and favorable, thus with 

thee, 
My song beginning, by its music sweet 
Shall make immortal many a glorious 

feat 
Of demigods, with lovely lips, so well 
Which minstrels, servants of the 
muses, tell. 

HOMER'S HYMN TO THE SUN. 

Offspring of Jove, Calliope, once 
more [pour ; 

To the bright Sun, thy hymn of music 

Whom to the child of star-clad Heaven 
and Earth 

Euryphaessa, large-eyed nymph, 
brought forth ; 

Euryphaessa, the famed sister fair. 

Of great Hyperion, who to him did 
bear 

A race of loveliest children ; the young 
Morn, 

Whose arms are like twin roses newly 
Iborn, 

The fair-haired Moon, and the immor- 
tal Sun, 

Who, borne by heavenly steeds his race 
doth run 

Unconquerably, illuming the abodes 

Of mortal meii and the eternal gods. 

Fiercely look forth his awe-inspiring 

eves 
Beneath his golden helmet, whence 

arise 
And are shot forth afar, clear beams 

of light ; 
His countenance with radiant glory 

bright 
Beneath his graceful locks far shines 

around. 
And the light vest with which his limbs 

are bound 
Of woof ethereal, delicately twined 
Glows in the stream of the uplifting 

wind. 



His rapid steeds soon bear him to tht 

west ; 
Where their steep flight his hands 

divine arrest, 
And the fleet car with yoke of gold 

which he 
Sends from bright heaven beneath the 

shadowy sea. 



HOMER'S HYMN TO THE EARTH 
MOTHER OF ALL. 

O UNIVERSAL mother, who dost keep! 
From everlasting thy foundations 

deep. 
Eldest of things. Great Earth, I sing 

of thee ; 
All shapes that have their dwelling ii 

the sea. 
All things that fly, or on the grounc 

divine 
Live, move, and there are nourisht-i 

these are thine ; 
These from thy wealth thou dost su9 

tain ; from thee 
Fair babes are born, and fruits oi 

every tree 
Hang ripe and large, revered Divinity ^ 

The life of mortal men beneath thj 

sway 
Is held ; thy power both gives ano 

takes away ! 
Happy are they whom thy mild favori 

nourish. 
All things unstinted round them gro\ 

and flourish. 
For them, endures the life-sustaininr 

field 
Its load of harvest, and their cattl 

yield 
Large increase, and their house witl 

wealth is filled. 
Such honored dwell in cities fair am 

free. 
The homes of lovely women, prosper 

ously ; 
Their sons exult in youth's new bud 

ding gladness. 
And their fresh daughters free froE 

care or sadness, 
With bloom-inwoven dance and happ 

song. 
On the soft flowers the meadow-gray 

among. 
Leap round them sporting— such dt 

lights by thee, j 

Are given, rich Power, revered D | 

vinity. 



HOMER .S HYMN TO VENrs. 



469 



Mother of gods, thou wife of starry 

Heaven, 
Farewell ! be thou propitious, and be 

given 
A happy life for this brief melody. 
Nor thou nor other songs shall unre- 

menibered be. 



HOMER'S HYMN TO MINERVA. 

I SING the glorious Power with azure 

eyes, 
Athenian Pallas ! tameless, chaste, 

and wise, 
Tritogenia, town-preserving maid. 
Revered and mighty ; from his awful 

head 
Whom Jove brought forth, in warlike 

armor drest. 
Golden, all radiant ! wonder strange 

possest 
The everlasting Gods that shape to 

see, 
Shaking a javelin keen, impetuously 
Rush from the crest of ^gis-bearing 

Jove ; 
Fearfully Heaven was shaken, and did 

more 
Beneath the might of the Cerulean- 
eyed ; 
Earth dreadfully I'esounded, far and 

wide, 
And lifted from its depths, the sea 

swelled high 
In purple billows, the tide suddenly 
Stood still, and great Hyperion's son 

long time 
Checkt his swift steeds, till where she 

stood sublime, 
Pallas from her immortal shoulders 

threw 
The arms divine : wise Jove rejoiced 

to view. 
Child of the ^gis-bearer, hail to thee. 
Nor thine nor others' praise shall unre- 

membered be. 



HOMER'S HYMN TO VENUS. 
[Vv. 1-55, with some omissions.] 

Muse, sing the deeds of golden Aphro- 
dite, 

Who wakens with her smile the lulled 
delight 

Of sweet desire, taming the eternal 
kings 

Of Heaven, and men, and all the living 
things 

That fleet along the air, or whom the 
sea. 



Or earth with her maternal ministry 
Nourish innumerable, thy delight 
All seek O crowned Aphrodite ! 

Three spirits canst thou not deceive 

or quell, 
Minerva, child of Jove, who loves too 

well 
Fierce war and mingling combat, and 

the fame 
Of glorious deeds, to heed thy gentle 

flame. 
Diana golden-shafted queen. 

Is tamed not by thy smiles ; the 

shadows green 
Of the wild woods, the bow, the . . . 
And piercing cries amid the swift pur- 
suit 
Of beasts among waste mountains, 

such delight 
Is hers, and men who know and do the 

right. 
Nor Saturn's first-born daughter, vVesta 

chaste, 
Whom Neptune and Apollo wooed the 

last. 
Such was the will of aegis-bearing 

Jove ; 
But sternly she refused the ills of 

Love, 
And by her mighty father's head she 

swore 
An oath not unperformed, that ever- 
more 
A virgin she would live mid deities 
Divine : her father, for such gentle 

ties 
Renounced, gave glorious gifts, thus 

in his hall 
She sits and feeds luxuriously. O'er 

all 
In every fane, her honors first arise 
From men— the eldest of Divinities. 



These spirits she persuades not, nor 

deceives, 
But none beside escape, so well she 

weaves 
Her unseen toils ; nor mortal men, nor 

gods 
Who live secure in their unseen 

abodes. 
She won the soul of him whose fierce 

delight 
Is thunder— first in glory and in 

might. ' 
And, as she willed, his mighty mind 

deceiving. 
With mortal limbs his deathless limbs 

inweaving 
Concealed him from his spouse and 

sister fair, 



470 



THE CYCLOPS. 



Whom to wise Saturn ancient Rhea 

bare. 

but in return, 
In Venus Jove did soft desire awaken, 
That by her own enchantments over- 
taken, 
She might, no more from human union 

free, 
Burn for a nursling of mortality. 
For once, amid the assembled Deities, 
The laughter-loving Venus from her 

eyes 
Shot forth the light of a soft starlight 

smile. 
And boasting said, that she, secure the 

while. 
Could bring at will to the assembled 

gods 
The mortal tenants of earth's dark 

abodes. 
And mortal offspring from a deathless 

stem 
She could produce in scorn and spite of 

them. 
Therefore he poured desire into her 

breast 
Of young Anchises, 
Feeding his herds among the mossy 

fountains 
Of the wide Ida's many-folded moun- 
tains. 
Whom Venus saw, and loved, and the 

love clung 
Like waving fire her senses wild among. 



THE CYCLOPS. 

A SATYR IC DRAMA. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF 
EURIPIDES. 



SiLENUS. 

Chorus of Satyrs. 



Ulysses. 
The Cyclops. 



Silcmis. O Bacchus, what a world 

of toil, both now 
And ere these limbs were overworn 

with age, 
Have I endured for thee ! First, when 

thou fled'st 
The mountain-nymphs whonurst thee, 

driven afar 
By the strange madness Juno sent upon 

thee ; 
Then in the battle of the sons of 

Earth, 
When I stood foot by foot close to thy 

side. 
No un propitious fellow-combatant, 
And driving thro' his shield my winged 

spear, 



Slew vast Enceladns. Consider now, 

Is it a dream of which I speak to thee ? 

By Jove it is not, for you have the 
trophies ! 

And now I suffer more than all be- 
fore. 

For when I heard that Juno had de- 
vised 

A tedious voyage for you, I put to 
sea 

With all my children quaint in search 
of you, 

And I myself stood on the beaked prow 

And fixt the naked mast, and all my 
boys 

Leaning upon their oars, with splash 
and strain 

Made white with foam the green and 
purple sea,— 

And so we sought you, king. We were 
sailing 

Near Malea, when an eastern wind 
arose. 

And drove us to this wild ^tnean 
rock ; 

The one-eyed children of the Ocean 
God, 

The man-destroying Cyclopses inhabit, 

On this wild shore, their solitary 
caves. 

And one of these, named Pol3^pheme, 
has caught us 

To be his slaves ; and so, for all de- 
light 

Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and 
melody. 

We keep this lawless giant's wander- 
ing flocks. 

My sons indeed, on far declivities. 

Young things themselves, tend on the 
youngling sheep, 

But I remain to fill the water-casks. 

Or sweeping the hard floor, or minis- 
tering 

Some impious and abominable meal 

To the fell Cycloixs. I am wearied of 
it ! 

And now I must scrape up the littered 
floor 

With this great iron rake, so to receive 

My absent master and his evening 
sheep 

In a cave neat and clean. Even now I 
see 

My children tending the flocks hither- 
ward. 

Ha ! what is this ! are your Sicinnian 
measures 

Even now the same, as when with 
dance and song 

You brought young Bacchus to 
Althaea's halls ? 



THE CYCLOPS. 



471 



Chorus of Satyrs. 



Where has he of race divine 

Wandered in the winding rocks ? 
Here the air is cahn and fine 

For tlie father of the flocks ;— 
Here the grass is soft and sweet, 
And the river-eddies meet 
In the trough beside the cave, 
Bright as in their fountain wave. — 
Neither here, nor on the dew 

Of the lawny uplands feeding ? 
Oil, you come ! — a stone at you 

Will I throw to mend your breed- 
ing ;— 
Get along, you horned thing. 
Wild, seditious, rambling ! 



An lacchic melody 

To the golden Aphrodite 
Will I lift, as erst did I 

Seeking her and her delight 
With the Msenads, whose white feet 
To the music glance and fleet. 
Bacchus, O beloved, where, 
Shaking wide thy yellow hair, 
Wanderest thou alone, afar ? 

To the one-eyed Cyclops, we 
Who by right thy servants are, 

Minister in misery, 
In these wretched goat-skins clad, 

Far from thy delights and thee. 

Silenus. Be silent, sons ; command 
the slaves to drive 

The gathered flocks into the rock-rooft 
cave. 
Chorus. Go ! But what needs this 

serious haste, O father ? 
Sllcnns. I see a Grecian vessel on 
the coast, 

And thence the rowers with some 
general 

Approaching to this cave. — About their 
necks 

Hang empty vessels, as they wanted 
food. 

And water-flasks.~Oh miserable stran- 
gers ! 

Whence come they that they know not 
what and who 

My master is, approaching at ill hour 

The inhospitable roof of Folypheme, 

And the Cyclopian jaw-bone, man- 
destroying ? 

Be silent. Satyrs, while I ask and hear 

Whence coming, they arrive the 
JEtnean hill. 



Ulysses. Friends, can you show me 
some clear water spring, 
The remedy of our thirst ? Will any 

one 
Furnish with food seamen in want of 

it ? 
Ha ! what is this ? We seem to be ar- 
rived 
At the blithe court of Bacchus. I ob- 
serve 
This sportive band of Satyrs near the 

caves. 
First let me greet the elder.— Hail ! 

Silenus. Hail thou, 

O Stranger ! tell thy country and thy 
race. 
Ulysses. The Ithacan Ulysses and 
the king 
Of Cephalonia. 

Silenus. Oh ! I know the man, 

Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisy- 
phus. 
Ulysses. I am the same, but do not 

rail upon me. — 
Silenus. Whence sailing do you 

come to Sicily ? 
Ulysses. From Ilion, and from the 

Trojan toils. 
Silenus. How toucht you not at 

your paternal shore ? 
Ulysses. The strength of tempests 

bore me here by force. 
Silenus. The self-same accident oc- 
curred to me. 
Ulysses. Were you then driven here 

by stress of weather ? 
Silenus. Following the Pirates who 

had kidnapt Bacchus. 
Ulysses. What land is this, and who 

inhabit it ?— 
Silenus. ^Etna, the loftiest peak in 

Sicily. 
Ulysses. And are there walls, and 

tower-surrounded towns ? 
Silenus. There are not.— These lone 

rocks are bare of men. 
Ulysses. And who possess the land ? 

the race of beasts ? 
Silemis. Cyclops, who live in 

caverns, not in houses. 
Ulysses. Obeying whom ? Or is 

the state popular ? 
Silenus. Shepherds : no one obeys 

any in aught. 
Ulysses. How live they ? do they 

" sow the corn of Ceres ? 
Silenus. On milk and cheese, and 

on the flesh of sheep. 
Ulysses. Have they the Bromian 

drink from the vine's stream ? 
Silenus, Ah ! no ; they live in an 
ungracious land. 



472 



THE CYCLOPS. 



Ulysses. And are they just to stran- 
gers ?— hospitable ? 
Silemis. They tL.nk the sweetest 

thing a stranger brings 
Is his OM'n flesh. 
Ulysses. What ! do they 

eat man's flesh V 
Silenus. No one comes here vvlio is 

not eaten up. 
Ulysses. The Cyclops now— where 

is he ? Not at home ? 
Silenus. Absent on ^Etna, hunting 

with his dogs. 
Ulysses. Know'st thou what thou 

must do to aid us hence ? 
Silenus. I know not : we will help 

you all we can. 
Ulysses. Provide us food, of which 

we are in want. 
Silenus. Here is not anything, as I 

said, but meat. 
Ulysses. But meat is a sweet rem- 
edy for hunger. 
Silcmis. Cow's milk there is, and 

store of curdled cheese. 
Ulysses. Bring out :— I would see 

all before I bargain. 
Silenus. But how much gold will 

you engage to give ? 
Ulysses. I bring no gold, but Bac- 
chic juice. 
Silenus. Oh joy ! 

'T is long since these dry lips were wet 

with wine. 
Ulysses. Maron, the son of the God, 

gave it me. 
Silenus. Whom I have nurst a baby 

in my arms. 
Ulysses. The son of Bacchus, for 

your clearer knowledge. 
Silenus. Have you it now ?— or is it 

in the ship ? 
Ulysses. Old man, this skin contains 

it, which you see. 
Silewus. Why this would hardly be 

a mouthful for me. 
Ulysses. Nay, twice as much as you 

can draw from thence. 
Silenus. You speak of a fair foun- 
tain, sweet to me. 
Ulysses. Would you first taste of 

unmingled wine ? 
Silenus. 'T is just— tasting invites 

the purchaser. 
Ulysses. Here is the cup, together 

with the skin. 
SilC7ius. Pour : that the draught 

may fillip my remembrance. 
Ulysses. See ! 
Silenus. Papaiax ! what a 

sweet smell it has ! 
Ulyfises. You see it then y— J 



Silenus. By Jove, no ! but I smell 

it. 
Ulysses. Taste, that you may not 

praise it in words only. 
Silenus. Baba ! Great Bacchus 

calls me forth to dance ! 
Joy ! joy ! 
Ulysses. Did it flow sweetly 

down your throat ? 
Silenus. So that it tingled to my 

very nails. 
Ulysses. And in addition I will give 

you gold. 
Silenus. Let gold alone ! only un- 
lock the cask. 
Ulysses. Bring out some cheeses 

now, or a young goat. 
Silenus. That will I do, despising 

any master. 
Yes, let me drink one cup, and I will 

give 
All that the Cyclops feed upon their 

mountains. 



C/iorifs. Y''e have taken Troy and 
laid your hands on Helen ? 

Ulysses. And utterly destroyed the 
race of Priam. 



Silenus. The wanton wretch ! she 

was bewitcht to see 
The many-colored anklets and the 

chain 
Of woven gold which girt the neck of 

Paris, 
And so she left that good man Mene- 

laus. 
There should be no more women in the 

world 
But such as are reserved for me alone. — 
See, here are sheep, and here are 

goats, Ulysses, 
Here are unsparing cheeses of prest 

milk ; 
Take them ; depart with what good 

speed ye may ; 
First leaving my reward, the Bacchic 

dew 
Of jo3'-inspiring grapes. 

Ulysses. Ah me ! Alas ! 

What shall we do ? the Cyclops is at 

hand ! 
Old man, we perish ! whither can we 

fly? 
Silenus. Hide yourselves quick 

within that hollow rock. 
Ulysses. 'T were perilous to fly into 

the net. 
Silenus. The cavern has recesses 

numberless ; 



THE CYCLOPS. 



4T3 



Hide yourselves quick. 
Ulysses. That will I never do ! 

The mighty Troy would be indeed dis- 
graced 

If I should fly one man. How many 
times 

Have I withstood, with shield immov- 
able, 

Ten thousand Phrygians !— if I needs 
must die, 

Yet will I die with glory ;— if I live. 

The praise which I have gained will 
yet remain. 
Silenns. What, ho! assistance, com- 
rades, haste, assistance ! 

T/ic Cyclops, Silenus, Ulysses ; 
Chorus. 

Cyclops. What is this tumult ? 
Bacchus is not here. 

Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets. 

How are my young lambs in the cav- 
ern ? Milking 

Their dams or playing by their sides ? 
And is 

The new cheese prest into the bulrush 

Speak ! I'll beat some of you till you 

rain tears — 
Look up, not downwards when I speak 

to you. 
Silenus. See ! I now gape at 

Jupiter himself, 
I stare upon Orion and the stars. 
Cyclops. Well, is the dinner fitly 

cookt and laid ? 
Silenus. All ready, if your throat is 

ready too. 
Cyclops. Are the bowls full of milk 

besides ? 
Silenus. O'er-brimming ; 

So you may drink a tunful if you will. 
Cyclops. Is it ewe's milk or cow's 

milk, or both mixt ?— 
Silenus Both, either; only pray 

don't swallow me. 
Cyclops. By no means. 

What is this crowd I see beside the 
stalls ? 

Outlaws or thieves ? for near my cav- 
ern home, 

I see my young lambs coupled two by 
two 

With willow bands ; mixt with my 
cheeses lie 

Their implements ; and this old fellow 
here 

Has his bald head broken with stripes. 
Silenus. Ah me ! 



I have been beaten till I burn with 

fever. 
Cyclops. By whom ? Who laid his 

fist upon your head ! 
Silenus. Those men, because I would 

not suffer them 
To steal your goods. 
Cyclops. Did not the rascals 

know 
I am a God, sprung from the race of 

heaven ? 
Silenus. I told them so, but they bore 

off your things, 
And ate the cheese in spite of all I said. 
And carried out the lambs— and said, 

moreover, 
They'd pin you down with a three-cubit 

collar. 
And pull your vitals out thro' your one 

eye, 
Torture your back with stripes, then 

binding you, 
Throw you as ballast into the ship's 

hold. 
And then deliver you, a slave, to move 
Enormous rocks, or found a vestibule. 
Cyclops. In truth ? Nay, haste, and 

place in order quickly 
The cooking knives, and heap upon the 

hearth. 
And kindle it, a great faggot of wood- 
As soon as they are slaughtered, they 

shall fill 
My belly, broiling warm from the live 

coals, 
Or boiled and seethed within the bub- 
bling caldron. 
I am quite sick of the wild mountain 

game, 
Of stags and lions I have gorged 

enough, 
And I grow hungry for the flesh of 

men. 
Silenus. Nay, master, something 

new is very pleasant 
After one thing forever, and of late 
Very few strangers have approacht our 

cave. 
Ulysses. Hear, Cyclops, a plain tale 

on the other side. 
We, wanting to buy food, came from 

our ship 
Into the neighborhood of your cave, 

and here 
This old Silenus gave us in exchange 
These lambs for wine, the which he 

took and drank, 
And all by mutual compact, without 

force. 
There is no word of truth in what he 

says, 
For slyly he was selling all your store. 



474 



THE CYCLOPS. 



Silenus. I ! May you perish, 

wretch— 
Ulysses. If I speak false ! 

Silenus. Cyclops, I swear by Nep- 
tune who begot thee, 
By mighty Triton and by Nereus old, 
Calypso and the glaucous ocean 

Nymphs, 
The sacred waves and all the race of 

fishes- 
Be these the witnesses, my dear sweet 

master, 
My darling little Cyclops, that I never 
Gave any of your stores to these false 

strangers ; — 
If I speak false may those whom most 

I love. 
My children, perish wretchedly ! 

Chorus. There stop ! 

I saw him giving these things to the 

strangers. 
If I speak false then may my father 

perish. 
But do not thou wrong hospitality. 
Cyclops. You lie ! I swear that he 
is juster far 
Than Rhadamanthus— I trust more in 

him. 
But let me ask, whence have ye sailed, 

O strangers ? 
Who are you ? And what city nour- 
isht ye ? 
Ulysses. Our race is Ithacan— hav- 
ing destroyed 
The town of Troy, the tempests of 

the sea 
Have driven us on thy land, O Poly- 
pheme. 
Cyclops. What, have ye shared in 
the unenvied spoil 
Of the false Helen, near Scamander's 
stream Y 
Ulysses. The same, having endured 

a woful toil. 
Cyclops. Oh, basest expedition ! 
sailed ye not 
From Greece to Phrygia for one wo- 
man's sake ? 
Ulysses. 'T was the Gods' work— no 
mortal was in fault. 
But, O great offspring of the ocean- 
king. 
We pray thee and admonish thee with 

freedom. 
That thou dost spare thy friends who 

visit thee. 
And place no impious food within thy 

jaws. 
For in the depths of Greece we have 

upreared 
Temples to thy great father, which are 
all 



His homes. The sacred bay of Tsena- 

rus 
Remains inviolate, and each dim 

recess 
Scoopt high on the Malean promon- 

And an-y Sunium's silver-veined crag, 
Which divine Pallas keeps unprofanedl 

ever. 
The Gerastian asylums, and whate'er 
Within wide Greece our enterprise 
has kept i 

From Phrygian contumely; and in I 

which 
You have a common care, for you in- 
habit 
The skirts of Grecian land, under the 

roots 
Of ^tna and its crags, spotted with i 

fire. 
Turn them to converse under human 

laws. 
Receive us shipwreckt suppliants, and 

provide 
Food, clothes, and fire, and hospitable 

gifts ; 
Nor fixing upon oxen- piercing spits 
Our hmbs, so fill your belly and your 

jaws. 
Priam's wide land has widowed Greece 

enough ; 
And weapon-winged murder heapt to- 
gether 
Enough of dead, and wives are hus- 

bandless. 
And ancient women and gray fathers 

wail 
Their childless age ;— if you should 

roast the rest, 
And 't is a bitter feast that you pre- 
pare. 
Where then would any turn ? Yet be 

persuaded ; 
Forego the lust of your jaw-bone ; pre- 
fer 
Pious humanity to wicked will : 
Many have bought too dear their evil 
joys. 
Silenus. Let me advise you, do not 
spare a morsel 
Of all his flesh. If you should eat his 

tongue 
You would become most eloquent, O 
Cyclops. 
Cyclops. Wealth, my good fellow, 
is the wise man's God, 
All other things are a pretence and 

boast. 
What are my father's ocean promon- 
tories, 
The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to 
me Y 



THE CYCLOPS. 



475 



stranger, I laugh to scorn Jove's thun- 
derbolt, 

I know not that his strength is more 
than mine. 

As to the rest I care not -.—When he 
pours 

Rain from above, I have a close pavil- 
ion 

Under this rock, in which I lie supine, 

Feasting on a roast calf or some wild 
beast, 

And drinking pans of milk, and glori- 
ously 

Emulating the thunder of high heav- 

And when the Thracian wind pours 
down the snow, 

I wrap rav body in the skins of beasts, 

Kindle afire, and bid the snow whirl 
on. 

The earth, by force, whether it will or 
no, ^ , 

Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks 
and herds, 

Which, to what other God but to my- 
self 

And this great belly, first of deities, 

Should I be bound to sacrifice ? I well 
know 

The wise man's only Jupiter is this, 

To eat and drink during his little day, 

And give himself no care. And as for 
those 

Who complicate with laws the life of 
man, 

I freely give them tears for their re- 
ward. 

I will not cheat my soul of its de- 
light, 

Or hesitate in dining upon you :— 

And that I may be quit of all demands, 

These are my hospitable gifts ;— fierce 
fire 

And yon ancestral caldron, which o'er- 
bubbling 

Shall finely cook your miserable fiesh. 

Creep in !— 

uiysscs. Ai ! ai ! I have escaped 

the Trojan toils, 
I have escaped the sea, and now I fall 
Under the cruel grasp of one impious 

man. 
O Pallas, mistress. Goddess, sprung 

from Jove, 
Now, now, assist me ! Mightier toils 

than Troy 
Are these ;— I totter on the chasms of 

peril ;— 
And thou who inhabitest the thrones 
Of the bright stars, look, hospitable 

Jove, 



Upon this outrage of thy deity, 
Otherwise be considered as no God ! 

Chorus {alone). 

For your gaping gulf, and your gullet 

wide 
The ravin is ready on every side. 
The limbs of the strangers are cookt 
and done. 
There is boiled meat, and roast meat, 
and meat from the coal. 
You may chop it, and tear it, and 
gnash it for fun, 
An hairy goat's-skin contain the 
whole. 
Let me but escape, and ferry me o'er 
The stream of your wrath to a safer 

shore, 
The Cyclops ^tnean' is cruel and bold. 
He murders the strangers 

That sit on his hearth, 
And dreads no avengers 
To rise from the earth. 
He roasts the men before they are 

cold. 
He snatches them broiling from the 

coal. 
And from the caldron pulls them 

whole. 
And minces their flesh and gnaws their 

bone 
With his cursed teeth, till all be gone. 
Farewell, foul pavilion : 

Farewell, rites of dread ! 
The Cyclops vermilion. 

With slaughter uncloying. 
Now feasts on the dead. 
In the flesh of strangers joying ! 
Ulysses. O Jupiter ! I saw within 
the cave 
Horrible things ; deeds to be feigned 

in words, 
But not to be believed as being done. 
Chorus. What J sawest thou the 
impious Polypheme 
Feasting upon your loved companions 
now ? 
Ulysses. Selecting two, the plump- 
est of the crowd. 
He graspt them in his hands.-- 
Chorus. Unhappy man ! 

uiysscs. Soon as we came into this 
craggy place, , ,^, , , 

Kindling a fire, he cast on the broad 
hearth 

The knotty limbs of an enormous oak, 

Three wagon-loads at least, and then 
he strewed 

Upon the ground, beside the red fire- 
light, 



470 



THE CYCLOPS. 



His couch of pine leaves ; and he milkt 

the cows, 
And Douring forth the white milk, 

filled a !;()V7l 
Three cubits wide and four in depth, 

as much 
As would contain ten amphorse, and 

bound it 
With ivy wreaths ; then placed upon 

the fire 
A brazen pot to boil, and make red hot 
The points of spits, not sharpened with 

the sickle, 
But with a fruit tree bough, and with 

the jaws 
Of axes for ^tnean slaughterings.' 
And when this God-abandoned cook of 

hell 
Had made all ready, he seized two of us 
And killed them in a kind of measured 

manner ; 
For he flung one against the brazen 

rivets 
Of the huge caldron, and seized the 

other 
By the foot's tendon, and knockt out 

his brains 
Upon the sharp edge of the craggy 

stone : 
Then peeled his flesh with a great 

cooking-knife 
And put him down to roast. The 

other's limbs 
He chopt into the caldron to be boiled. 
And I, with with the tears raining from 

my eyes. 
Stood near the Cyclops, ministering to 

him ; 
The rest, in the recesses of the cave, 
Clung to the rock like bats, bloodless 

with fear. 
When he was filled with my compan- 
ions' flesh. 
He threw himself upon the ground and 

sent 
A loathsome exhalation from his maw. 
Then a divine thought came to me. I 

filled 
The cup of Maron, and I ofifered him 
To taste, and said:— "Child of the 

Ocean God, 
Behold what drink the vines of Greece 

produce. 
The exultation and the joy of Bac- 
chus." 
He, satiated with his unnatural food, 
Received it, and at one draught drank 

it off, 
And taking my hand, praised me : — 
" Thou hast given 

> I confess I do not understand this. 



I A sweet draught after a sweet mea. 

dear guest." 
And I perceiving that it pleased him 

filled 
Another cup, well knowing that th 

wine 
Would wound him soon and take a supil 

revenge. 
And the charm fascinated him, and I 
Plied him cup after cup, until the drinl 
Had warmed his entrails, and he sanj 

aloud 
In concert with my wailing fellow-sea 

men 
A hideous discord— and the caverr 

rung. 
I have stolen out, so that if you will 
You may achieve my safety and youii 

own. 
But say, do you desire, or not, to fly 
This uncompanionable man, and dwel 
As was your wont among the Greciai.; 

Nymphs 
Within the fanes of your beloved 

God? 

Your father there within agrees to it; 
But he is weak and overcome witti 

wine, 
And caught as if with bird-lime by the! 

cup, 
He claps his wings and crows in doting! 

.joy. ■ 

You who are young escape with me,^ 

and find 
Bacchus your ancient friend ; unsuited; 

he 
To this rude Cyclops. 

Chorus. Oh my dearest friend,! 

That I could see that day, and leavei 

forever 
The impious Cyclops. 



Ulysses. Listen then what a punish-i) 

ment I have 

For this fell monster, how secure a. 

flight 
From your hard servitude. 

Chorus. O sweeter far' 

Than is the music of an Asian lyre 
Would be the news of Polypheme des- 
troyed. 
in ysscs. Delighted with the Bacchic 
drink he goes 
To call his brother Cyclops— who in- 
habit 
A village upon ./Etna not far off. 
Chorus. I understand, catching him 
when alone 
You think by some measure to dis- 
patch him. 
Or thrust him from the precipice. 



THE CYCLOPS. 



477 



Ulysses. Oh no ; 

Nothing of that kind ; my device is 

subtle. 
Chorus. How then ? I heard of old 

that thou wert wise. 
Ulysses. I will dissuade him from 

this plan, by saying 
It were unwise to give the Cyclopses 
This precious drink, which if enjoyed 

alone 
Would make life sweeter for a longer 

time. 
When vanquisht by the Bacchic power, 

he sleeps, 
There is a trunk of olive wood within, 
Whose point having made sharp with 

this good sword 
I will conceal in tire, and when I see 
It is alight, will fix it, burning yet, 
Within the socket of the Cyclops' eye 
And melt it out with fire — as when a 

man 
Turns by its handle a great augur 

round. 
Fitting the framework of a ship with 

beams. 
So will I, in the Cyclops' fiery eye 
Turn round the brand and dry the 

pupil up. 
Chorus. Joy ! lam mad with joy at 

your device. 
Ulysses. And then with you, my 

friends, and the old man. 
We'll load the hollow depth of our 

black ship, 
And row with double sti'okes from this 

dread shore. 
Chorus. May I, as in libations to a 

God, 
Share in the blinding him with the red 

brand ? 
I would have some communion in his 

death. 
Ulysses. Doubtless : the brand is a 

great brand to hold. 
Chorus. Oh ! I would lift a hundred 

wagon-loads. 
If like a wasp's nest I could scoop the 

eye out 
Of the detested Cyclops. 

Ulysses. Silence now ! 

Ye know the close device— and when I 

call. 
Look ye obey the masters of the craft. 
I will not save myself and leave behind 
My comrades in the cave : I might es- 
cape. 
Having got clear from that obscure 

recess, 
But 't were unjust to leave in jeopardy 
The dear companions who sailed here 

with me. 



Chorus. 

Come ! who is first, that with his 
hand 
Will urge down the burning brand 
Thro' the lids, and quench and pierce 
The Cyclops' eye so fiery fierce ? 

Seinichorus I. (Song tvithin.) 

Listen ! listen ! he is coming, 
A most hideous discord humming. 
Drunken, museless, awkward, yelling, 
Far along his rocky dwelling ; 
Let us with some comic spell 
Teach the yet unteachable. 
By all means he must be blinded, 
If my council be but minded. 

Scmichorus II. 

Happy those made odorous 
With the dew which sweet grapes 
weep, 
To the village hastening thus. 

Seek the vines that soothe to sleep. 
Having first embraced thy friend, 
There in luxury without end. 
With the strings of yellow hair, 
Of thy voluptuous leman fair, 
Shalt sit playing on a bed ! — 
Speak what door is opened ? 

Cyclops. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! I'm full of wine, 

Heavy with the joy divine, 
"" With the young feast oversated, 

Like a merchant's vessel freighted 

To the water's edge, my crop 

Is laden to the gullet's top. 

The fresh meadow grass of spring 

Tempts me forth thus wandering 
To my brothers on the mountains, 
Who shall share the wine's sweet • 
fountains. 

Bring the cask, O stranger, bring 1 

Chorus. 

One with eyes the fairest 
Cometh from his dwelling, 

Some one loves thee, rarest. 
Bright beyond my telling. 

In thy grace thou shinest 

Like some nymph divinest, 

In her caverns dewy :— 

All delights pursue thee. 

Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing, 

Shall thy head be wreathing. 

Ulysses. Listen, O Cyclops, for I 
am well skilled 
In Bacchus, whom I gave thee of to 
drink. 



478 



THE CYCLOPS. 



Cyclops. What sort of God is Bac- 
chus then accounted ? 
Ulysses. The greatest among men 

for joy of life. 
Cyclops. I gulpt him down with very 

great delight. 
Ulysses. This is a God who never 

injures men. 
Cyclops. How does the God like liv- 
ing in a skin ? 
Ulijsses. He is content wherever he 

" is put. 
Cyclops. Gods should not have their 

body in a skin. 
Ulysses. If he gives joy what is his 

skin to you ? 
Cj/c!o/)s. I hato the skin, but love 

the wine within. 
Ulysses, ytay here, now drink, and 

make your spirit glad. 
Cyclops. Should I not share this 

liquor with my brothers ? 
Ulysses. Keep it yourself, and be 

' more honored so. 
Cyclops. I were more useful giving 

to my friends. 
Ulysses. But village mirth breeds 

contest.s, broils, and blows. 
Cyclops. When I am drunk none 

shall lay hands on me. — 
Ulysses. A drunken man is better 

within doors. 
Cyclops. He is a fool, who drinking, 

loves not mirth. 
Ulysses. But he is wise, who drunk, 

remains at home. 
Cycloiis. What shall I do, Silenus ? 

Shall I stay ? 
Silcaus. Stay— for what need have 

you of pot companions ? 
Cyclops. Indeed this place is closely 

carpeted 
With flowers and grass. 
Silenus. And in the sun-warm 

noon 
'T is sweet to drink. Lie down beside 

me now. 
Placing your mighty sides upon the 

ground. 
Cyclops. What do you put the cup 

behind me for ? 
SlleiiHs. That no one here may 

touch it. 
Cyclops. Thievish one ! 

You want to drink ;— here place it in 

the midst. 
And thou, O stranger, tell how art thou 

called ? 
Ulysses. My name is Nobody. 

What favor now 
Shall I receive to praise you at your 

hands ? 



Cyclops. I'll feast on you the last of 

your companions. 
Ulysses. You grant your guest a 

fair rew^ard, O Cyclops. 
Cyclops. Ha ! what is this ? Steal- 
ing the wine, you rogue ! 
Silcn us. It was this stranger kissing 
me because 
I looked so beautiful. 

Cyclops. You shall repent 

For kissing the coy wine that loves you 
not. 
Silenus. By Jupiter ! you said that 

I am fair. 
Cyclops. Pour out, and only give 

me the cup full. 
Silcn us. How is it mixt ? let me ob- 
serve. 
Cyclops. Curse you ! 

Give it me so. 

Silenus. Not till I see you wear 

That coronal, and taste the cup to 
you. 
Cyclops. Thou wily traitor ! 
Silenus. But the wine is sweet. 

Ay, you will roar if you are caught in 
drinking. 
Cyclops. See now, my lip is clean 

and all my beard. 
Silenus. Now put your elbow right 
and drink again. 
As you see me drink— . . . 
Cyclops. How now ? 
Silenus. Ye Gods, what 

a delicious gulp ! 
Cyclops. Guest, take it ;— you pour 

out the wine for me. 
Ulysses. The wine is well accus- 
tomed to my hand. 
Cyclops. Pour out the wine ! 
Ulysses. I pour ; only be silent. 

Cyclo])s. Silence is a hard task to 

him who drinks. 
Uly.^scs. Take it and drink it off ; 
" leave not a dreg. 
Oh, that the drinker died with his own 
draught ! 
Cyclops. Papal ! the vine must be 

a sapient plant. 
Ulysses. If you drink much after a 
mighty feast. 
Moistening your thirsty maw, you will 

sleep well ; 
If you leave aught, Bacchus will dry 
you up. 
Cyclops. Ho ! ho ! I can scarce rise. 
What pure delight ! 
The heavens and earth appear to whirl 

about. 
Confusedly. I see the throne of Jove 
And the clear congregation of the 
Gods. 



THE CYCLOPS. 



-179 



Now if the Graces tempted me to kiss 
I would not, for the loveliest of them all 
I would not leave this Ganj'mede. 

Silcnus. Polypheme, 

I am the Ganymede of Jupiter. 

Cyclops. By Jove you are ; I bore 
you off from Dardanus. 



Ulysses and the Chorus. 

Ulysses. Come, boys of Bacchus, 
children of high race, 

This man within is folded up in sleep, 

And soon will vomit flesh from his fell 
maw ; 

The brand under the shed thrusts out 
its smoke. 

No preparation needs, but to burn out 

The monster's eye ;— but bear your- 
selves like men. 
Chorus. We will have courage like 
the adamant rock. 

All things are ready for you here ; 
go in. 

Before our father shall perceive the 
noise. 
Ulysses. Vulcan, ^tnean king ! 
burn out with fire 

The shining eye of this thy neighbor- 
ing monster ! 

And thou, O sleep, nursling of gloomy 
night, 

Descend umnixt on this God hated 
beast. 

And suffer not Ulysses and his com- 
rades. 

Returning from their famous Trojan 
toils. 

To perish by this man, who cares not 
either 

For God or mortal ; or I needs must 
think 

That Chance is a supreme divinity. 

And things divine are subject to her 
power. 

Chorus. 

Soon a crab the throat will seize 
Of him who feeds upon his guest, 

Fire will burn his lamp-like eyes 
In revenge of such a feast ! 

A great oak stump now is lying 
In the ashes yet undying. 

Come, Marion, come ! 
Raging let him fix the doom. 
Let him tear the eyelid up 
Of the Cyclops — that his cup 

May be evil ! 
Oh ! I long to dance and revel 
With sweet Bromian, long desired, 
In loved ivy wreaths attired ; 



Leaving this abandoned home — 
Will tlie moment ever come ? 
Ulysses. Be silent, ye wild things ! 
Nay, hold your peace, 
And keep your lips quite close ; dare 

not to breathe. 
Or spit, or e'en wink lest ye wake the 

monster. 
Until his eye be tortured out with 
fire. 
Chorus. Nay, we are silent, and we 

chaw the air. 
Ulysses. Come now, and lend a hand 
to the great stake 
Within — it is delightfully red hot. 
Chorus. You then command who 
first should seize the stake 
To burn the Cyclops' eye, that all may 

share 
In the great enterprise. 

Semichorns 1. We are too far. 

We cannot at this distance from the 

door 
Thrust fire into his eye. 

Scmiehorus II. And we just now 
Have become lame ; cannot move hand 
or foot. 
Chorus. The same thing has oc- 
curred to us, — our ankles 
Are sprained with standing here, I 
know not how. 
Ulysses. What, sprained with stand- 
ing still ? 
Chorris. And there is dust 

Or ashes in our eyes, I know not 
whence. 
Ulysses. Cowardly dogs ! ye will 

not aid me then ? 
Chorus. With pitying my own back 
and my back bone, 
And with not wishing all my teeth 

knockt out. 
This cowardice comes of itself— but 

stay, 
I know a famous Orphic incantation 
To make the brand stick of its own 

accord 
Into the skull of this one-eyed son of 
Earth. 
Ulysses. Of old I knew ye thus by 
nature ; now 
I know ye better.— I will use the aid 
Of my own comrades — Yet tho' weak 

of hand 
Speak cheerfully, that so ye may 

awaken 
The courage of my friends with your 
blii'.ie words. 
Chorus. This I will do with peril of 
my life. 
And blind you with my exhortations, 
Cyclops. 



480 



TO STELLA. 



Hasten and thrust, 
And parch up the dust, 
The eye of the beast, 
Who feeds on his guest. 
Burn and blind 
The ^tnean hind ! 
Scoop and draw, 
But beware lest he claw 
Your limbs near his maw. 
Cyclops. Ah me ! my eyesight is 

parcht up to cinders. 
Chorus. What a sweet p«an ! sing 

me that again ! 
Cyclops. Ah me ! indeed, what woe 
has fallen upon me ! 
But wretched nothings, think ye not 

to flee 
Out of this rock ; I, standing at the 

outlet, 
Will bar the way and catch you as you 
pass. 
Chorus. What are you roaring out, 

Cyclops ? 
Cijclops. I perish ! 

Clwrus. For you are wicked. 
Cyclops. And besides miserable. 

Chorus. What, did you fall into the 
fire when drunk ? [me. 

Cyclops. 'T was Nobody destroyed 
Chorus. Why then no one 

Can be to blame. 

Cyclops. I saj' 't was Nobody 

Who blinded me. 
Chorus. Why then you are not 

blind. 
Cyclo})s. I wish you were as blind 

I am. 
Chorus. Nay, 

It cannot be that no one made you 
blind. 
Cyclops. You jeer me ; where, I 

ask, is Nobody ? 
Chorus. Nowhere, O Cyclops. 
Cyclops. It was that stranger ruined 
me :— the wretch 
First gave me wine and then burnt 

out my eye, 
For wine is strong and hard to struggle 

with. 
Have they escaped, or are they yet 
within ? 
Chorus. They stand under the dark- 
ness of the rock 
And cling to it. 
Cyclops. At my right hand 

or left ? 
Chorus. Close on your right. 
CycJops. Where ? 

Chorus. Near the rock itself. 

You have them 
Cyclops. Oh, misfortune on 

misfortune 1 



I've crackt my skull. 
Chorus. Now they escape you 

there. 
Cyclops. Not there, altho' you say so 
Chorus. Not on that side. 

Cyclops. Where then ? 
Chorus. They creep about 

you on your left. 
Cyclo})s. Ah ! I am mockt ! They 

jeer me in my ills. 
Chorus. Not there ! he is a little 

there beyond you. 
Cyclops. Detested wretch ! where 

are you ? 
Uly,sscs. Far from you 

I keep with care this body of Ulysses. 
Cyclops. What do you say ? You 

proffer a new name. 
Ulys.^cs. My father named me so ; 
and I have taken 
A full revenge for your unnatural 

feast ; 
I should have done ill to have burned 

down Troy 
And not revenged the murder of my 
comrades. 
Cyclops. Ai ! ai ! the ancient oracle 
is accomplisht ; 
It said that I should have my eyesight 

blinded 
By you coming from Troy, yet it fore- 
told 
That you should pay the penalty for 

this 
By wandering long over the homeless 
sea. 
Ulysses. I bid thee weep— consider 
what I say, 
I go towards the shore to drive my ship 
To mine own land, o'er the Sicilian 
wave. 
Cyclops. Not so, if whelming you 
with this huge stone 
I can crush you and all your men to- 
gether ; 
I will descend upon the shore, tho' 

blind, 
Groping my way adown the steep ra- 
vine. 
Chorus. And we, the shipmates of 
Ulysses now, 
Will serve our Bacchus all our happy 
lives. 

EPIGRAMS. 

I.— TO STELLA. 

FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO. 

Thou wert the morning star among 
the living. 
Ere thy fair light had fled ;— - 



FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ADONIS. 481 



Now, having died, thou art as Hes 
perils, giving 
New splendor to the dead. 

n.-KISSING HELENA. 
FROM THE GKEEK OF PLATO. 

Kissing Helena, together 

With my kiss, my .soul beside it 
Came to my lips, and there I kept 
it,— 
For the poor thing had wandered 
thither. 
To follow where the kiss should guide 
it. 
Oh, cruel I, to intercept it ! 

III.— SPIRIT OF PLATO. 
FROM THE GREEK. 

Eagle I why soarest thou above that 

tomb ? 
To what sublime and star-ypaven 
home 
Floatest thou ? 
"I am the image of swift Plato's spirit. 
Ascending heaven— Athens doth in- 
herit 
His corpse below." 

IV.— CIRCUMSTANCE. 
FROM THE GREEK. 

A MAN who was about to hang himself. 
Finding a purse, then threw away 
his rope ; 
The owner, coming to reclaim his pelf, 
The halter found and used it. So is 
Hope 
Changed for Despair— one laid upon 
the shelf. 
We take the other. Under heaven's 
high cope 
Fortune is God— all you endure and do 
Depends on circumstance as much as 
you. 

FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON 
THE DEATH OP ADONIS. 
FROM THE GREEK OF BION. 

I MOURN Adonis dead— loveliest 

Adonis- 
Dead, dead Adonis— and the Loves 

lament. 
Sleep no more, Venus, wrapt in purple 

woof — 
Wake, violet-stoled queen, and weave 

the crown 
Of Death,— 't is Misery calls,— for he 

is dead. 

31 



The lovely one lies wounded in the 

mountains, 
His white thigh struck with the white 

tooth ; he scarce 
Yet breathes ; and Venus hangs in 

agony there. 
The dark blood wanders o'er his snowy 

limbs, 
His eyes beneath their lids are lustre- 
less. 
The rose has fled from his wan lips, 

and there 
That kiss is dead, which Venus gathers 

yet. 

A deep deep wound Adonis . . . 

A deeper Venus bears upon her heart. 

See, his beloved dogs are gathering 

round— 
The Oread nymphs are weeping — 

Aphrodite 
With hair unbound is wandering thro' 

the woods, 
Wildered, ungirt, unsandalled— the 

thorns pierce 
Her hastening feet and drink her 

sacred blood. 
Bitterly screaming out she is driven on 
Thro' the long vales ; and her Assyrian 

boy. 
Her love, her husband calls— The pur- 
ple blood 
From his struck thigh stains her white 

navel now. 
Her bosom, and her neck before like 

snow. 

Alas for Cytherea— the Loves 

mourn — 
The lovely, the beloved is gone— and 

now 
Her sacred beauty vanishes away. 
For Venus whilst Adonis lived was 

fair- 
Alas her loveliness is dead with him. 
The oaks and mountains cry "Ai ! ai ! 

Adonis ! " 
The springs their waters changed to 

tears and weep— 
The flowers are withered up with 

grief . . . 

Ai ! ai ! Adonis is dead 

Echo resounds Adonis dead. 

Who will weep not thy dreadful woe, 

O Venus ? 
Soon as she saw and knew the mortal 

wound 
Of her Adonis— saw the life-blood flow 
Fi'om his fair thigh, now wasting, wail- 
ing loud 



48-3 FRAGMENT OP THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BION. 



She claspt liim and cried " Stay, 

Adonis ! 
Stay, dearest one, . . . 

and mix my lips with thine— 
Wake yet a while, Adonis— oh but once, 
That I may kiss thee now for the last 

time — 
But for as long as one short kiss may 

live— 
Oh let thy breath flow from thy dying 

soul 
Even to my mouth and heart, that I 

may suck 
That . . . 

FRAGMENT OP THE ELEGY ON 

THE DEATH OP BION. 

FROM THE GREEK OV MOSCHUS. 

Ye Dorian woods and waves lament 

aloud,— 
Augment your tide, O streams, with 

fruitless tears. 
For the belovctl Bion is no more. 
Let every tender herb and plant and 

flower. 
From each dejected bud and drooping 

bloom. 
Shed dews of liquid sorrow, and with 

breat h 
Of melancholy sweetness on the wind 
Diffuse its languid love ; let roses 

blush, 
Anemones grow paler for the loss 
Their dells have known ; and thou, O 

hyacinth. 
Utter thy legend now— yet more, dumb 

flower, 
Than "Ah ! alas '."—thine is no com- 
mon grief— 
Bion the [sweetest singer] is no more. 

FROM THE GREEK OP 
MOSCHUS. 

Tai* aAa Tau ykavKav brav cijvefxo^ arpejua 
/SoiAArj — K. T. A. 

U'liEN winds that move not its calm 

surface sweep 
The azure sea, I love the land no 

more ; 
The smiles of the serene and tranquil 

deep 
Tempt my unquiet mind.— But when 

the roar 
Of Ocean's gray abyss resounds, and 

foam 
Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves 

bui'st, 
I turn from the drear aspect to the 

home J 



Of earth and its deep woods, where in- 

tersperst. 
When winds blow loud, pines make 

sweet melody. 
Whose house is some lone bark, whose 

toil the sea. 
Whose prey the wandering fish, an 

evil lot 
Has chosen.— But I my languid limbs 

will fling 
Beneath the plane, where the brook's 

murmuring 
Moves the calm spirit, but disturbs it 

not. 

PAN, ECHO, AND THE SATYR. 
FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS. 

Pan loved his neighbor Echo— but that 
child 
Of Earth and Air pined for the Satyr 
leaping ; 
The Satyr loved with wasting madness 
wild 
The bright nymph Lyda,— and so 
three went weeping. 
As Pan loved Echo, Echo loved the 
Satyr, 
The Satyr Lyda— and so love con- 
sumed them.— 
And thus to each— which was a woful 
matter- 
To bear what they inflicted Justice 
doomed them ; 
For in as much as each might hate the 
lover. 
Each loving, so was hated.— Ye that 
love not 
Be warned— in thought turn this ex- 
ample over. 
That when ye love— the like return ye 
prove not. 

FROM VERGIL'S TENTH 
ECLOGUE. 
fVv. 1~26.J 

Melodious Arethusa, o'er my verse 
Shed thou once more the spirit of 
thy stream : 
Who denies verse to Gallus ? So, when 
thou 
Glidest beneath the green and purple 
gleam 
Of Syracusan waters, mayst thou flow 
Unmingled with the bitter Doric 
dew ! 
Begin, and, whilst the goats are brows- 
ing now 
The soft leaves, in our way let us 
pursue 



THE FIRST CANZONE OF THE CONVITO. 



483 



The melancholy loves of Gallus. List ! 
We sing not to the dead : the wild 
woods knew 
His sufferings, and their echoes . . . 
Young Naiads, in what far 

woodlands wild 
Wandered ye when unworthy love 
possest 
Your Gallus ? Not where Pindus is 
up-piled, 
Nor where Parnassus' sacred mount,nor 
where 
Aonian Aganippe expands . . . 
The laurels and the myrtle-copses dim. 
The pine-encircled mountain, Maena- 
lus. 
The cold crags of Lycaeus, weep for 
him ; 
And Sylvan, crowned with rustic 
coronals 
Came shaking in his speed the budding 
wands 
And heavy lilies which he bore : we 
knew 
Pan the Arcadian. 



What madness is this, Gallus ? Thy 

heart's care 
With willing steps pursues another 

there. 

SONNET. 
FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE. 

DantcAlighlcrito Giiido Cavalcanti. 

GuiDO, I would that Lapo, thou, and I 
Led by some strong enchantment, 

might ascend 
A magic ship, whose charmed sails 

should tly 
"f<Vith winds at will where'er our 

thoughts might wend, 
And that no change, nor any evil 

chance 
Should mar our joyous voyage ; but if 

might be, 
That even satiety should still enhance 
Between our hearts their strict com- 
munity : 
And that the bounteous wizard then 

would place 
Vanna and Bice and my gentle love, 
Companions of our wandering, and 

would grace 
With passionate talk, wherever we 

might rove, 
Our time, and eacli were as content and 

free 
As I believe that thou and I should be. 



THE FIRST CANZONE OF THE 

CONVITO. 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE. 

I. 

Ye who intelligent the thii-d heaven 

move. 
Hear the discourse which is within my 
Heart, 
Which cannot be declared, it seems 
so new ; 
The Heaven whose course follows your 
power and art. 
Oh, gentle creatures that ye are ! 

me drew, 
And therefore may I dare to speak 
to you. 
Even of the life which now I live — and 
yet 
I pray that ye will hear me when I 

cry, 
And tell of mine own Heart this 
novelty ; 
How the lamenting Spirit moans in it. 
And how a voice there murmurs 

against her 
Who came on the refulgence of your 
sphere. 

II. 

A sweet Thought, which was once the 
life Avithin 
This heavy Heart, many a time and 

oft 
Went up before our Father's feet, 

and there 
It saw a glorious Lady throned 
aloft ; 
And its sweet talk of her my soul did 
win. 
So that I said, "Thither I too will 

fare." 
That Thought is fled, and one doth 
now appear 
Which tyrannizes me with such fierce 
stress, 
That my heart trembles — j-e may see 

it leap — 
And on another Lady bids me keep 
Mine eyes, and .says — "Who would 

have blessedness 
Let him but look upon that Lady's 

eyes. 
Let him not fear the agony of sighs." 

III. 

This lowly Thought, which once would 

talk with me 
Of a bright Seraph sitting crowned on 

high, 



484 



MATILDA GATHERING FLOWERS. 



Found such a cruel foe, it died, and so 
My Spirit wept, the grief is hot even 
now— 
And said, "Alas for me ! how swift 

could flee 
That piteous thought which did my 
life console ! " 
And the afflicted one questioning 
Mine eyes, if such a Lady saw they 
never, 
And why they would . . . 
I said : " Beneath those eyes might 
stand for ever 
He whom regards must kill 

with . . . 
To have known Their power stood me 

in little stead, 
Those eyes liave lookt on me, and I 
am dead.'' 



" Thou art not dead, but thou hast 

wandered. 
Thou Soul of ours, who thyself dost 

fret, 
A Spirit of gentle Love beside me 

said : 
For that fair Lady, whom thou dost 

regret, 
Hath so transformed the life wliieh 

thou hast led. 
Thou scornest it, so worthless art thou 

made. 
And see how meek, how pitiful, how 

staid, 
Yet courteous, in her majesty she is. 
And still I a 11 thou her ' Woman ' in 

thy thouirht. 
Her whom, if thou thyself deceivest 

not, 
Thou wilt behold deckt with such love- 
liness, 
That thou wilt cry ' fLoveJ only Lord, 

lo here 
Thy handmaiden, do what thou wilt 

with her.'" 



My Song, I fear that thou wilt find 
but few 
Who fitly shall conceive thy reason- 
ing 
Of such hard matter dost thou en- 
tertain. 
Whence, if by misadventure chance 
should bring 
Thee to base cornpanv, as chance may 
do, 
Quite unaware of what thou dost 
contain, 



I prithee comfort thy sweet self 
a,gain. 

My last delight ; tell them that they 
are dull. 

And bid them own that thou art beau- 
tiful. 

MATILDA GATHERING 
FLOWERS. 

FROM THE PURGATORIO OF DANTE, 
CANTO XXVIII, 1-51. 

And earnest to explore within— around 
The divine wood, whose thick green 

living woof 
Tempered the young day to the sight 

—I wound 

Up the green slope, beneath the for- 
est's roof. 

With slow soft steps leaving the moun- 
tain's steep. 

And sought those inmost labyrinths, 
motion-proof 

Against the air, that in that stillness 
deep 

And solemn, struck upon my forehead 
bare, 

The slow soft stroke of a continu- 
ous . . . 

In which the leaves tremblingly 

were 

All bent towards that part where ear- 
liest [air. 

The sacred hill obscures the morning 

Yet were they not so shaken from the 
rest. 

But that the birds, perch t on the ut- 
most spray. 

Incessantly renewing their blithe 
quest, 

With perfect joy received the early 

day. 
Singing within the glancing leaves, 

whose sound 
Kept a low burden to their roundelay, 

Such as from bough to bough gathers 

around 
The pine forest on bleak Chiassi's 

shore. 
When ^oius Sirocco has unbound. 

My slow steps had already borne me 

o'er 
Such space within the antique wood, 

that I 
Perceived not where I entered any 

more, 



^ 



SCENES VUOM THE MAGICO PKODIGIOSO. 



485 



When, lo ! a stream whose little waves 

went by, 
Bending towards the left thro' grass 

that grew 
Upon its bank, impeded snddenly 

My going on. Water of purest hue 
3n earth, would appear turbid and im- 
pure 
iompared with this, whose unconceal- 
ing dew, 

Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under 
the obscure 

Eternal shades, whose interwoven 
looms 

The rays of moon or sunlight ne'er en- 
dure. 

[ moved not with my feet, but mid the 
glooms 

Pierced with my charmed eye contem- 
plating . 

The mighty multitude of fresh May 
blooms 

Which starred that night, when, even 
as a thing 

That suddenly for blank astonish- 
ment 

Charms every sense, and makes all 
thought take wing, 

A solitary woman ! and she went 
Singing and gathering flower after 

flower, 
With which her way was painted and 

besprent. 

Bright lady, who, if looks had ever 
power 

To bear true witness of the heart with- 
in. 

Dost bask under the beams of love, 
come lower 

Towards this bank. I prithee let me 

win 
This much of thee, to come, that I 

may hear 
Thy song ; like Proserpine, in Enna's 

glen, 

Thou seemest to my fancy, singing 

here 
And gathering flowers, as that fair 

maiden when 
She lost the spring, and Ceres her, 

more dear. 



FRAGMENT 

ADAPTED FROM THE VITA NUOVA 
OF DANTE. 

What Mary is when she a little smiles 
I cannot even tell or call to mind, 
It is a miracle, so new, so rare. 

SONNET 
FROM THE ITALIAN OF CAVALCANTX. 

GuiDO Cavalcanti TO Dante 
Alighieki. 

Returning from its daily quest, my 

Spirit 
Changed thoughts and vile in thee 

doth weep to find : 
It grieves me that thy mild and gentle 

mind 
Those ample virtues which it did in- 
herit 
Has lost. Once thou didst loathe the 

multitude 
Of blind and madding men— I then 

loved thee — 
I loved thy lofty songs and that sweet 

mood 
When thou wert faithful to thyself and 

me. 
I dare not now thro' thy degraded state 
Own the delight thy strains inspire — 

in vain 
I seek what once thou wert — we can 

not meet 
As we were wont. Again and yet 

again 
Ponder my words : so the false Spirit 

shall fly 
And leave to thee thy true integrity. 

SCENES FROM THE MAGICO 

PRODIGIOSO. 
FROM THE SPANISH OF CALDERON. 

SCENE I.— Enter Cyprian, dressed as 
« Sti«7c«t; Clarin an(7 MoscoN as 
poor Scliolars, ivith books. 

Cyprian. In the sweet solitude of 
this calm place, 

This intricate wild wilderness of trees 

And flowers and undergrowth of odor- 
ous plants, 
i Leave me ; the books you brought out 
of the house 

To me are ever best society. 

And while with glorious festival and 
song, 



486 



SCENES FJiO.M THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO. 



Antioch now celebrates the consecra- 
tion 
Of a proud temple to great Jupiter, 
And bears his image in loud jubilee 
To its new shrine, I would consume 

what still 
Lives of the dying day, in studious 

thought. 
Far from the throng and turmoil. 

You, my friends. 
Go, and enjoy the festival ; it will 
Be worth your pains. You may re- 
turn for me 
When the sun seeks its grave among 
the billows, ^ 

Which among dim gray clouds on the 

horizon, 
Dance like white plumes upon a hearse" • 
— and here '' 

I shall expect j'ou. 

Moscon. I can not bring my mind, 
Great as my haste to see the festival 
Certamly is, to leave you. Sir, without 
Just saying some three or four thou- 
sand words. 
How is it possible that on a day 
Of such festivity, you can be content 
To come forth to a solitary country 
With three or four old books, and turn 

your back 
On all this mirth ? 

Clarin. My master's in the right ; 
There is not anything more tiresome 
Than a procession day, with troops, and 

priests, 
And dances, and all that. 

Moscon. From first to last, 

Clarin, you area temporising flatterer- 
You praise not what you feel but what 

he does ; — 
Toad-eater ! 
Clarin. You lie— under a 

mistake — 
For this is the most civil sort of lie 
That can be given to a man's race. I 

now 
Say what I think. 
Cuprian. Enough, you foolish 

fellows ! 
Pufft up with your own doting igno- 
rance. 
You always take the two sides of one 

question. 
Now go ; and as I said, return for me 
When night falls, veiling in its shadows 

wide 
This glorious fabric of the universe. 
Moscon. How happens it, altho' you 
can maintain 
The folly of enjoying festivals. 
That yet you go there ? 
Clarin. Nay, the consequence 



Is clear :— who ever did what he a( 

vises 

Others to do ?— 

Moscon . Would that my fei 

were wings. 

So would I fly to Livia. \Exi,: 

Clarin. To speak trutt 

Livia IS she who has surprised mi 

heart ; 
But he is more than half-way there - 

Soho ! 
Livia, I come ; good sport, Livia, soho 

\E:Tit\ 
vyprian. Now, since I am alone 
let me examine 
The question which has long disturbec 

my mind 
With doubt, since first I read in Plif 

nius 
The words of mystic import and deer 

sense 
Li which he defines God. My intellect 
Can find no God with whom thesf' 

marks and signs 
Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth 
Which I must fathom. 
[Ctpkian reads ; the D^mon; 
dressed in a Court dress, enters.]'i 
Da:)non. Search even as thouil 

wilt. 
But thou Shalt never find what I cam 
hide. 

Cyprian. What noise is that amongi 
the boughs ? Who moves ? 
What art thou ?— 
Daemon. 'T is a foreign gentle- 

man. 
Even from this morning I have lost my* 

way 
In this wild place ; and my poor horse 

at last, 
Quite overcome, has stretcht himself: 

upon 
The enamelled tapestry of this mo.ssy 

mountain. 
And feeds and rests at the same time. 

I was 
Upon my way to Antioch upon busi- 
ness 
Of some Importance, but wrapt up in 

cares 
(Who is exempt from this inher- 
itance?) 
I parted from my company, and lost 
My way, and lost my servants and my 
comrades. 
Cyprian. 'T is singular that even 
within the sight 
Of the high towers of Antioch you 

could lose 
Your way. Of all the avenues and 
green paths 



SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PKODTGIOSO. 



487 



Of this wild wood there is not one but 

leads, 
As to its centre, to the walls of An- 

tioch ; 
Take which you will you cannot miss 

your road. 
Dcvmon. And such is ignorance ! 

Even in the sight 
Of knowledge, it can draw no profit 

from it, 
But as it still is early, and as I 
Have no acquaintances in Antioch, 
Being a stranger there, I will even 

wait 
The few surviving hours of the day, 
Until the night shall conquer it. I 

see 
Both by your dress and by the books 

in which 
You find delight and company, that 

you 
Are a great student ; for my part, I 

feel 
Much sympathy in such pursuits. 

Cyprian. Have you 

Studied much ? 
Doemon. No,— and yet I 

know enough 
Not to be wholly ignorant. 

Cyprian. Pray, Sir, 

What science may you know ? — 
Dcemon. Many. 

Cyprian. Alas ! 

Much pains must we expend on one 

alone, 
And even then attain it not ; — but you 
Have the presumption to assert that 

you 
Know many without study. 

Dannon. And with truth. 

For in the country whence I come the 

sciences 
Require no learning, — they are known. 
Cyprian. Oh would 

I were of that bright country ! for in 

this 
The more we study, we the more dis- 
cover 
Our ignorance. 

Dcemon. It is so true, that I 

Had so much arrogance as to oppose 
The chair of the most high Professor- 
ship, 
And obtained many votes, and tho' I 

lost, 
The attempt was still more glorious, 

than the failure 
Could be dishonorable. If you believe 

not, 
Let us refer it to dispute respecting 
That which you know the best, and 

altho' I 



Know not the opinion you maintain, 
and tho' 

It be the true one, I will take the con- 
trary. 
Cyprian. The offer gives me pleas- 
ure. I am now 

Debating with myself upon a passage 

Of Plinius, and my mind is rackt with 
doubt 

To understand and know who is the 
God 

Of whom he speaks. 
Dwnion. It is a passage, if 

I recollect it right, coucht in these 
words : 

" God is one supreme goodness, one 
pure essence, 

One substance, and one sense, all sight, 
all hands. 
Cyprian. 'T is true. 
Daemon. What difficulty find 

you here ? 
Cyprian. I do not recognize among 
the Gods 

The God defined by Plinius ; if he must 

Be supreme goodness, even Jupiter 

Is not supremely good ; because we 
see 

His deeds are evil, and his attributes 

Tainted with mortal weakness ; in 
what manner 

Can supreme goodness be consistent 
with 

The passions of humanity ? 
Dwnion. The wisdom 

Of the old world maskt with the names 
of Gods 

The attributes of Nature and of Man ; 

A sort of popular philosophy. 
Cyprian. This reply will not satisfy 
me, for 

Such awe is due to the high name of 
God 

That ill should never be imputed. 
Then 

Examining the question with more 
care, 

It follows, that the Gods would always 
will 

That which is best, were they su- 
premely good. 

How then does one will one thing, one 
another ? 

And that you may not say that I al- 
lege 

Poetical or philosophic learning : — 

Consider the ambiguous responses 

Of their oracular statues ; from two 
shrines 

Two armies shall obtain the assurance 
of 

One victory. Is it not indisputable 



488 



SCENES VUOU THE MAGICO Pr.ODIGIOSO. 



That two contendinK wills can never 
lead 

To the same end ? And being oppo- 
site, 

If one be good is not the other evil ? 

Evil in God is inconceivable ; 

But supreme goodness fails among the 
Gods 

Without their union. 
Dtvmon. I deny your major. 

These responses are means towards 
some end 

Unfathomed by our intellectual beam. 

They are the work of providence, and 
more 

The battle's loss may profit those who 
lose, 

Than victory advantage those who 
win. 
Cyprhtii. That I admit ; and yet 
that God should not 

(Falsehood is incompatible with deity) 

Assure the victor}^ ; it would be enough 

To have permitted the defeat. If God 

Be all sight,— God, who had beheld the 
truth, 

Would not have given assurance of an 
end 

Never to be accomplisht : thus, altho' 

The Deity may according to his at- 
tributes 

Be well distinguisht into persons, yet 

Even in the minutest circumstance 

His essence must be one. 
Dfvmon. To attain the end 

The affections of the actoi's in the 
scene 

Must have been thus Influenced by his 
voice. 
Cyprhni. But for a purpose thus 
subordinate 

He might have employed Genii, good 
or evil,— 

A sort of spirits called so by the 
learned, 

Who roam about inspiring good or evil, 

And from whose influence and exist- 
ence we 

May well infer our immortality. 

Thus God might easily, without de- 
scent 

To a gross falsehood in his proper 
person. 

Have moved the affections by this 
mediation 

To the just point. 
Dannon. These trifling con- 

tradictions 

Do not suffice to impugn the unity 

Of the high Gods ; in things of great 
importance 

They still appear unanimous ; consider 



That glorious fabric man,— his work- 
manship 
Is stampt with one conception. 

Cyprian . Who made man 

Must have, methinks, the advantage 

of the others. 
If they are equal, might they not have 

risen 
In opposition to the work, and being 
All hands, according to our author 

here, 
Have still destroyed even as the other 

made ? 
If equal in their power, unequal only 
In opportimity, which of the two 
Will remain conqueror ? 

Dcvinon. On impossible- 

And false hypothesis there can be 

built 
No argument. Say, what do you infer 
From this ? 
Cyprian. That there must be a 

mighty God 
Of supreme goodness and of highest 

grace. 
All sight, all hands, all truth, infallible, 
Without an equal and without a rival, 
The cause of all things and the effect 

of nothing. 
One power, one will, one substance, 

and one essence. 
And in whatever persons, one or two, 
His attributes may be distinguisht, 

one 
Sovereign power, one solitary essence. 
One cause of all cause. \TJiey rise. 
Dwnivn. How can I impugn 

So clear a consequence ? 

Cyprian. Do you regret 

My victory ? 

Dicmon. Who but regrets a check 
In rivalry of wit ? I could reply 
And urge new difficulties, but will now 
Depart, for I hear steps of men ap- 
proaching. 
And it is time that I sliould now pur- - 

sue 
My journey to the city. 
Cyprian. Go in peace ! 

Dcvmon. Remain in peace !— Since ; 

thus it profits him 
To study, I will wrap his senses up i 
In sweet oblivion of all thought, but 

of 
A piece of excellent beauty : and as I n 
Have power given me to wage enmity \ 
Against Justina's soul, I will extract 
From one effect two vengeances. 

\Aside and exit. 
Cyprian. I never ■ 

Met a more learned person. Let me f 

now i 



SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO. 



489 



Revolve this doubt again with careful 
™i"d- [He reads. 

Floro and Lelio enter 



Lcho. Here stop. These topplin" 
rocks and tangled boughs 
Impenetrable by the noonday beam 
Shall be sole witnesses of what we— 
xf^'o''f'- Draw ! 

If there were words, here is the place 
for deeds. 
Lelio. Thou needest not instruct 
me ; well I know 
That in the field, the silent tongue of 

steel 
Speaks thus,- ^ Thcij fight, 

typrian. Ha ! what is this ? 

Lelio,— Floro, 
Be it enough that Cyprian stands be 

tween you, 
Altho' unarmed. 
Lelio. Whence comest thou, to 

Between me and my vengeance " 

Floro. From what rocks 

And desert cells ? 

Enter Moscow and Clarin 
Moscon. Run ! run ! for 

where we left 
My raasteis I now hear the clash of 
swords. 
Clarin. I never run to approach 
thmgs of this sort. 
But only to avoid them. Sir ' Cvorian ' 
sir ! •'^ 

Cyprian. Be silent, fellows ! What' 
two friends who are 

[n blood and fame the eyes and hope 
of Antioch, ^ 

3ne of the noble race of the Colati 

rhe other son o' the Governor, adven- 
ture ' 

^nd cast away, on some slight cause 
no doubt, 

^^0 Hves, the honor of their country ? 

Utho' my high respect towardrvour 
person •' 

ilolds now my sword suspended, thou 
canst not > wu 

llestore it to the slumber of the scab- 
bard : 

I'hou knowest more of science than the 

I °^ Afield *^° ™^" ^^ ^""°'" *^^® ^^^ 
I'o counsel nor respect can make them 

friends 
ut one must die in the dispute. 
Flow. ^ J 

hat you depart hence with vour 
, people, and •' 



wftrouYal?n^ta\:'-^^ "^ ^^^^ ^^^"" 
'^'SSne Tho'youmay 

Tliat I know little of the laws of duel 
Which vanity and valor instituted ' 

Held n'o I'L'^^T- ^y '"^ ^'irth I am 
Held no less than yourselves to know 
the limits 

OnP^^hT V^^^ %^ '"^^"^^^' '^^^l- lias Study 

Quencht the free spirit which first 
ordered them ; 

And thus to me, as one well expe- 
rienced ^ 

In the false quicksands of the sea of 
honor, 

You may refer the merits of the case ; 
tion perceive in your rela- 

'^^^'^^ t'imf^ ^^^ *^^ "^^* *^ satisfac- 
From the other, I give you my word of 

honor 
To leave you. 

T inl".:^!., Y?"^^"" *^'^ condition then 
1 will relate the cause, and you will 

cede 
And must confess the impossibility 
Of compromise ; for the same lady is 
Bejoved by Floro and myself. 

Much£me that the light of day*shoukl 

Upon that idol of my heart— but he- 
Leave us to fight, according to thv 
word. ■' 

Cyprian. Permit one question fur- 
ther : IS the lady 
Impossible to hope or not ? 

Lelio. gjjg j 

So excellent, that if the light of day 
Should excite Floro's jealousy, it 
were ^> 'i- 

Without just cause, for even the light 

of day ® 

Trembles to gaze on her 

Cyprian. Would you for your 

Part, marry her ? 

Flora. Such is my confidence. 

Cyprian. And you ? 

^*^^^^- ^A v^. . O^ ' would that I 
could lift my hope 
So high for tho' she is extremely poor 
Her virtue is her dowrv 
„,Cypr«f jj. And if you both 

Would marry her, it is not weak and 

vain, 
Culpable and unworthy, thus before- 

To slur her honor ? What would the 

world say 
If one should slay the other, and if she 



490 



SCENES FROM THE MAGTCO PRODTGIOSO. 



Should afterwards espouse the raur- 
dei'er ? 

IThe rlvalfi agree to refer their quar- 
rel to Cyprian ; who in consequcnee 
lusits JusTiNA, and becomes enam- 
ored of her: she disdains htm, and 
he retires to a solitary sea-shore. 



SCENE II. 
Cyprian. 

O memory ! permit it not 
That the tyrant of my thought 
Be another soul that still 
Holds dominion o'er the will, 
That would refuse, but can no more, 
To bend, to tremble, and adore. 
Vain idolatry !— I saw. 
And gazing, became bhnd with er- 
ror ; 

"Weak ambition, which the awe 
Of her presence bound to terror ! 

So beautiful she was— and I, 

Between my love and jealousy. 

Am so convulst with hope and fear, 

Unworthv as it may appear ;— 

So bitter is the life I live, 

That, hear me, Hell ! I now would 
give 

To thy most detested spirit 

My soul, for ever to inherit, 

To suffer punishment and pine, 

So this woman may be mine. 

Hear'st thou. Hell ! dost thou reject it ? 

My soul i;x Qlf ered 1 
Dcemon ( u nscen ) I accept it. 

[Tempest, irith thunder and li(jht- 
11 i n (J- 

Cypriaii: 

Wh it is this ? ye heavens for ever 
pure. 
At once intensely radiant and obscure ! 

Athwart the ethereal halls 
The lightning's arrow and the thunder 
balls 
The day affright. 
As from the horizon round. 
Burst with earthquake sound. 
In mighty torrents the electric foun- 
tains ;— 
Clouds quench the sun, and thunder- 
smoke 
Strangles the air, and fire eclipses 
heaven. 
Philosophy, thou canst not even 
Compel their causes underneath thy 

voke ; 
From yonder clouds even to the waves 
below 



The fragments of a single ruin choke 
Imagination's flight ; 
For, on flakes of surge, like feather '. 
light. 
The ashes of the desolation cast 
Upon the gloomy blast. 
Tell of the footsteps of the storm. 
And nearer see the melancholy form 
Of a great ship, the outcast of the sea, 

Drives miserably ! 
And it must fly the pity of the port. 
Or perish, and its last and sole resort 
Is its own raging enemy. 
The terror of the thrilling cry 
Was a fatal prophecy 
Of coming death, who hovers now 
Upon that shattered prow. 
That they who die not may be dying; 

still. 
And not alone the insane elements 
Are populous with wild portents, 
But that sad ship is as a miracle 

Of sudden ruin, for it drives so fast 
It seems as if it had arrayed its form 
With the headlong storm. 
It strikes— I almost feel thei 

shock,— 
It stumbles on a jagged rock,— 
Sparkles of blood on the white foami 
are cast. [A tempest. i 

All exclaim within. We are all lost.. 
Dmnon {ivithin). Now from this 
plank will I 
Pass to the land and thus fulfll m\ 
scheme. 

Cyprian. | 

As in contempt of the elemental rage JJ 
A man comes forth in safety, whilt ^ 
the ship's , 

Great form is in a watery eclipse 
Obliterated from the Ocean's page. 
And round its wreck the huge sea^ 
monsters sit, , . ,. i 

A horrid conclave, and the whistlmi 
wave 1 

Is heapt over its carcase, like a grave ^ 

The DAEMON enters as escaped fron 
the sea. 



Da;mon (aside). It was essential ti , 
my purposes . j 

To wake a tumult on the sapphir-r 
ocean, ^ . , ^ I 

That in this unknown form I might af 
length «i „ i 

Wipe out the blot of the discomfiture T 

Sustained upon the mountain, awi 

With a new war the soul of Cyprian, L 
Forging the instruments of his de 
struction 



SCENES B^ROM THE MAGICO PilODIGIOSO. 



491 



Even from his love and from his wis- 
dom.— Oh ! 

Beloved earth, dear mother, in thv 
bosom 

I seek a refug-e from the monster who 

Precipitates itself upon me. 

.S.y^rH"- ,. Friend, 

Collect thyself ; and be the memory 
Of thy late suffering, and thy greatest 

sorrow 
But as a shadow of the past,— for noth- 
ing 
Beneath the circle of the moon, but 

flows 
And changes, and can never know re- 
pose. 
Dccmon. And who art thou, before 
Avhose feet my fate 
Has prostrated me ? 
Cyprian. One who, moved 

with pity. 
Would soothe its stings. 

Dannon. Oh, that can never be ' 
No solace can my lasting sorrows find 
Cyprian. Wherefore? 
Dcemon. Because my happi- 

ness is lost. 
Yet I lament what has long ceast to be 
The object of desire or memory, 
And my life is not life. 

Cyprian. Now, since the fury 

3f this earthquaking hurricane is 

still, 
!\.nd the crystalline heaven has reas- 

sumed 
:ts windless calm so quickly, that it 

seems 
i.s if its heavy wrath had been awak- 
ened 
)nly to overwhelm that vessel,— speak, 
.Vho art thou, and whence comest 

thou ? 
Dcemon. Far more 

ly coming hither cost, than thou hast 

seen 
)r I can tell. Among my misadven- 
tures 
'his shipwreck is the least. Wilt thou 
' hear ? 
Cyprian. Speak. 

Doiman. Since thou desirest, I will 

then unveil 
[yself to thee ;— for in myself I am 
world of happiness and misery ; 
his I have lost, and that I must la- 
ment 
orever. In my attributes I stood 

high and so heroically great, 

1 lineage so supreme, and with a 
genius 

/"hich penetrated with a glance the 
world 



Of 
Of 



Beneath my feet, that won by mv hish 
merit •' j b 

A king— whom I may call the king of 

kings. 
Because all others tremble in their 

pride 
Before the terrors of his countenance, 
In his high palace rooft with brightest 

gems 
Of living light-call them the stars of 

Heaven — 
Named me his counsellor. But the 

high praise 
Stung me with pride and envy, and I 

rose 
In mighty competition, to ascend 
His seat and place my foot trium- 
phantly 
Upon his subject thrones. Chastised 

I know 
The depth to which ambition falls • too 

mad ' 

Was the attempt, and yet more mad 

were now 
Repentance of the irrevocable deed •— 
Therefore I chose this ruin with the 
glory 
not to be subdued, before the 

shame 
reconciling me with him who 
reigns 
By coward cession.— Nor was I alone 
Nor am I now, nor shall I be alone ■ 
And there was hope, and there mav 

still be hope. 
For many suffrages among his vassals 
Hailed me their lord and king, and 

many still 
Are mine and many more, perchance 

shall be. 
Thus vanquisht, tho' in fact victori- 
ous, 
I left his seat of empire, from mine eye 
Shooting forth poisonous lightning 

while my words 
With inauspicious thunderiugs shook 

Heaven, 
Proclaiming vengeance, public as my 

wrong. 
And. imprecating on his prostrate 

slaves 
Rapine, and death, and outrage. Then 

I sailed 
Over the mighty fabric of the world 
A pirate ambusht in its pathless sands 
A lynx croucht watchfully among its 

caves 
And craggy shores ; and I have wan- 
dered over 
The expanse of these wild wildernesses 
In this great ship, whose bulk is now 
dissolved 



492 



SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO. 



In the light breathings of the invisible 

wind, 
And which the sea has made a dustless 

ruin, 
Seeking ever a mountain, thro' whose 

forests 
I seek a man whom I must now com- 
pel 
To keep his word with me. I came 

arrayed 
In tempest, and altho' my power could 

well 
Bridle the forest winds in their career, 
For other causes I forbore to soothe 
Their fury to Favonian gentleness ; 
I could aiid would not ; ( thus I wake 

in him |.4>.(f7o. 

A love of magic art). Let not this 

tempest, 
Nor the succeeding calm excite thy 

wonder ; 
For by my art the sun would turn as 

pale 
As his weak sister with unwonted 

fear. 
And in my wisdom are the orbs of 

Heaven 
Written as in a record ; I have pierced 
The flaming circles of their wondrous 

spheres 
And know them as thou knowest every 

corner 
Of this dim spot. Let it not seem to 

thee 
That I boast vainly ; wouldst thou 

that I work 
A charm over this waste and savage 

wood. 
This Babylon of crags and aged trees, 
Filling its leafy coverts with a horror 
Thrilling and strange ? I am the friend- 
less guest 
Of these wild oaks and pines— and as 

from thee 
I have received the hospitality 
Of this rude place, I offer thee the 

fruit 
Of years of toil in recompense ; 

whate'er 
Thy wildest dream presented to thy 

thought 
As object of desire, that shall be thnie. 



And thenceforth shall .so Arm an 
amity . 

'Twixt thee and me be, that neither 
fortune. 

The monstrous phantom which pursues 
success. 

That careful miser, that free prodigal. 



Who ever alternates with changeful 

hand. 
Evil and good, reproach and fame ; nor 

Time, 
That lodestar of the ages, to whose 

beam 
The winged years speed o'er the in- 
tervals 
Of their unequal revolutions ; nor 
Heaven itself, whose beautiful bright 

stars 
Rule and adorn the world, can ever 

make 
The least division between thee and 

me. 
Since now I find a refuge in thy favor. 

SCENE III.— T7io D.«MON tempts 
JusTiNA, K'7io is a ChrMian. 

D(vmo)i. 

Abyss of Hell ! I call on thee. 
Thou wild misrule of thine owm 
anarchy ! 
From thy prison-house set free 
The spirits of voluptuous death. 
That with their mighty breath 
They may destroy a world of virgiui 

thoughts ; 
Let her chaste mind with fancies thictl 
as motes 
Be peopled from thy shadowy deep, , 
Till her guiltless fantasy 
Full to overflowing be ! 
And with sweetest harmony 
Let birds, and flowers, and leaves ant , 
all things move , 

To love, only to love. 
Let nothing meet her eyes i 

But signs of Love's soft victories ; |P 
Let nothing meet her ear J 

But sounds of Love's sweet sorrow, ' 
So that from faith no succor she ma; 
borrow. 
But, guided by my spirit blind 
And in a magic snare entwined, ' 

She may now seek Cyprian. 
Begin, while I in silence bind 
My voice, when thy sweet song tho' 
hast began. E 

A Voice (within). f 

What is the glory far above 
All else in human life ? 

AU. 



Love ! love ! 

[While these ivords are sung thl 
D.'EMON qoes out at one door, an\, 
JusTiNA alters at another. '^: 



SCENES ritOM THE MAGICO PKODIGIOSO. 



493 



The First Voice. 

There is uo form in which the fire 
Of love its traces has imprest not. 

Man lives far more in love's desire 
Than by life's breath, soon possest 
not. 

[f all that lives must love or die, 

A.11 shapes on earth, or sea, or sky, 

With one consent to Heaven cry 

rhat the glory far above 

A.11 else in life is— 

All. 

Love ! oh love ! 
Justina. 

Thou melancholy thought which art 
5o flattering and so sweet, to thee 
When did I give the liberty 

Thus to afflict my heart ? 
What is the cause of this new power 

Which doth my fevered being move. 
Momently raging more and more ? 
What subtle pain is kindled now 
Which from my heart doth overflow 

Into my senses ?— 

All. 

Love ! oh love ! 
Justina. 

T is that enamored nightingale 

"Who gives me the reply ; 
3e ever tells the .same so'ft tale 

Of passion and of constancy 

his mate who rapt and fond 
listening sits a bough beyond. 

ie silent, Nightingale— no more 

Make me think, in hearing thee 
'hus tenderly thy love deplore. 
If a bird can feel his so. 
What a man would feel for me. 

And, voluptuous Vine, O thou 
^ho seekest most when least pursu- 
ing,— 
To the trunk thou interlacest 
Art the verdure which embracest, 
ind the weight which is its ruin,— 
To more with green embraces, "Vine, 
Make me think on what thou 

lovest,— 
'or whilst thus thy boughs entwine, 

1 fear lest thou should'st teach me, 

sophist, 
[ow arms might be entangled too. 

light-enchanted Sunflower, thou 
i''ho gazest ever true and tender 
n the sun's revolving splendor ! 



Follow not his faithless glance 
With thy faded countenance. 
Nor teach my beating heart to fear, 
If leaves can mourn without a tear, 
How must eye.-, weep ! O Nightingale, 
Cease from thy enamored tale,— 
Leafy Vine, unwreathe thy bower, 

Restle.ss Sunflower, cease to move, — 
Or tell me all, what poisonous power 

Ye use against me— 

All. 

Love 1 love ! love ! 
Justina. It cannot be !— Whom 
have I ever loved ? 
Trophies of my oblivion and disdain, 
Floro and Lelio did I not reject ? 
And Cyprian y 

\Shc hccomcs troubled at the name 

'>f Cyprian. 

Did I not requite him 
With such severity, that he has fled 
Where none has ever heard of him 

again ?— 
Alas ! I now begin to fear that this 
May be the occasion whence desire 

grows bold, 
As if there were no danger. From the 

moment 
That I pronounced to my own listening 

heart, 
Cyprian is absent, O me miserable ! 
I know not what I feel ! [More calmly. 

It must be pity 
To think that such a man, v^'hom all the 

world 
Admired, should be forgot by all the 

world. 
And I the cause. 

[She again becomes tronhlcd. 

And yet if it were pity, 

Florio and Lelio might have equal 

share. 
For they are both imprisoned for my 

sake. 
{Calmli/.) Alas ! what reasonings are 

these ? it is 
Enough I pity him, and that, in vain, 
Without this ceremonious subtlety. 
And woe is me ! I know not where to 

find him now, 
Even should I seek him thro' this wide 

world. 

Enter D^mon 

Dwmon. Follow, and I will lead 

thee where he is. 
Jmtina. And who art thou, who 
hast found entrance hitlier. 
Into my chamber thro' the doors and 
locks ? 



49 i 



SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO. 



Art thou a monstrous shadow which 

my madness 
Has formed in the idle air ':• 

Dcemon. No. I am one 

Called by the thought which tyrannizes 

thee 
From his eternal dwelling ; who this 

day 
Is pledged to bear thee unto Cyprian. 
JustUm. So shall thy promise fail. 
This agony 
Of passion which afflicts my heart and 

soul 
May sweep imagination in its storm ; 
The will is firm. 

D(vmon. Already half is done 

In the imagination of an act. 
The sin incurred, the pleasure then 

remains ; 
Let not the will stop half-way on the 
road. 
Jmtiiut. I will not be discouraged, 
nor despair, 
Altho' I thought it, and altho' 't is 

true 
That thought is but a prelude to the 

deed :— 
Thought is not in my power, but action 

is : 
I will not move mv foot to follow thee. 
DcniKni. But a far mightier wis- 
dom than thine own 
Exerts itself within thee, with such 

power 
Compelling thee to that which it in- 
clines 
That it shall force thy step ; how wilt 

thou then 
Resist, Justina ? 
Juatina. By my free-will. 

Dwmnn. I 

Must force thy will. 

Justina. It is invincible ; 

It were not free if thou hadst power 
upon it. 

\Uc draws hut vannot move her. 
Dai^mon. Come, where a pleasure 

waits thee. 
Justina. It were bought 

Too dear. 
Dwmon. 'T will soothe thy heart 

to softest peace. 
Justina. 'T is dread captivity. 

Da:inon. 'T is joy, 't is glory. 

Justina. 'T is shame, 't is torment. 

't is despair. 
Dmnon. But how 

Canst thou defend thyself from that or 

me, 
If my power drags thee onward ^ 

Justina. My defence 

Consists in God. 



[He vainly endeavors to forceher, 
and at last releases her. 

Dcemon. Woman, thou hast 

subdued me, 
Only by not owning thyself subdued. 
But since thou thus findest defence in 

God, 
I will assume a feigned form, and thus 
Make thee a victim of my baffled rage. 
For I will mask a spirit in thy form , 
AVho will betray thy name to infamy, I 
And doublv shall I triumph in thy loss, . 
First by dishonoring thee, and then by. 

turning 
False pleasure to true ignominy. 

{E.vit. 
jHsti)ia. I 

Appeal to Heaven against thee ; so 

that Heaven 
May scatter thy delusions, and the blot: 
Upon my fame vanish in idle thought. 
Even as 'flame dies in the envious air, 
And as the floweret wanes at morning-; 

frost. 
And thou shouldst never— But, alas ! 

to whom I, 

Do I still speak ?— Did not a man but^'i 

now 
Stand here before me?— No, I am 

alone, 
And yet I saw him. Is he gone so 

quickly ? 
Or can the heated mind engender 

shapes 
From its own fear ? Some terrible andi 

strange 
Peril is near. Lisander ! father ! lord ' 
Livia !— 

Enter Lisandek and Livi.\. 



Lisander. 

What ? 
Livia. 
Justina. 
A man go forth from my 

now ? — 
I scarce contain myself 1 



Oh my daughter 
What ? 



Saw yoi 
apartment ;, 



A man here 
Have you not seen him ? 
No, Lady 
I saw him. 

'T is impossible ; th( 



Lisande) 

Justina. 

Livia. 

Justina. 

Lisande) 

doors , 

Which led to this apartment were al 

lockt. ,, ; 

Livia {aside). I dare say it was Mosl) 

con whom she saw, I 

For he was lockt up in my room. , 

Lisander. ^*™"^L 

Have been some image of thy fantasy IT 

Such melancholy as thou feedest is 



SCENES FROM T?TE FAFST OF GOETHE. 



495 



ilful in forming such in the vain air 
Jut of the motes and atoms of the 
day. 
Livla. M}' master 's in the ris-ht. 
Jufitina. Oh would it were 

DeUision : but I fear some greater ill. 
[ feel as if out of my bleeding bosom 
My heart was toi-n in fragments ; ay, 
5ome mortal spell is wrought against 

my frame ; 
5o potent was the charm, that had not 

God 
Shielded my humble innocence from 

wrong, 
[ should have sought my sorrow and 

my shame 
With willing steps.— Livia, quick, bring 

iny cloak, 

ii'or I must seek refuge from those ex- 
tremes 
ven in the temple of the highest God 
IVhere secretly the faithful worship. 
Livla. Here. 

Justina (pidthui on lirr cloak). In 
this, as in a shroud of snow, may 

Quench the consuming fire in which 

I burn, 
A^'asting away ■ 
Lisandcr. And I will go with 

thee. 
Livla. When once I see them safe 

out of the house 
shall breathe freely. 
Justi)ia. So do I confide 

n thy just favor. Heaven ! 
Llmiulcr. Let us go. 

Justina. Thine is the cause, great 
God ! turn for my sake, 
^nd for thine own, mercifully to me ! 

;CENES FROM THE FAUST OF 
GOETHE. 

iCENE I.— Prologue in Heaven. 
The Lord and the Host of Heaven. 

Enter three Archangels. 

Raphael. 
'he sun makes music as of old 
Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, 
)n its predestined circle rolled 
With thunder speed : the Angels 

even 
)raw strength from gazing on its 

glance, 
Though none its meaning fathom 

may :— 
'he world's unwithered countenance 
Is bright as at creation's day. 



(iabricl. 
And swift and swift, with rapid light- 
ness, 
The adorned Earth spins silently, 
Alternating Elysiau brightness 
With deep and dreadful night ; the 
sea 
Foams in broad billows from the deep 
Up to the rocks, and rocks and ocean. 
Onward, with spheres which never 
sleep. 
Are hurried in eternal motion. 

Michael. 

And tempest in contention roar 

From land to sea, and from sea to 
land ; 
And, raging, weave a chain of power. 

Which girds the earth, as with a 
band.— 
A flashing desolation there. 

Flames before the thunder's way ; 
But thy servants. Lord, revere 

The gentle changes of thy day. 

Cliorus of the Three. 

The Angels draw strength from thy 
glance. 
Though no one comprehend thee 
may ;— 
Thy world's unwithered countenance 
Is bright as on creation's day. 

Enter Mephistopheles. 

Mephlstopheles. As thou, O Lord, 

once more art kind enough 
To interest thyself in our affairs— 
And ask, "How goes it with you there 

below ? " 
And as indulgently at other times 
Thou tookest not my visits in ill part. 
Thou seest me here once more among 

thy household. 
Tho' I should scandalize this company. 
You will excuse me if I do not talk 
In the high style which they think 

fashionable ; 
My pathos certainly would make you 

laugh too. 
Had you not long since given over 

laughing. 
Nothing know I to say of suns and 

worlds ; 
I observe only how men plague them- 
selves ; — 
The little god o' the world keeps the 

same stamp. 
As wonderful as on creation's day :— 
A little better would he live, hadst 

thou 



496 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE. 



Not given him a glimpse of Heaven's 

light 
Which he calls reason, and employs it 

only 
To live more beastly than any beast. 
With reverence lo your Lordship be it 

spoken, 
He's like one of those long-legged grass- 
hoppers. 
Who flits and jumps about, and sings 

for ever 
The same old song i' the grass. There 

let him lie, 
Burying his nose in every heap of dung. 
The Lord. Have you no more to 

say ? Do you come here 
Always to scold, and cavil, and com- 
plain ? 
Seems nothing ever right to you on 

earth V 
MejiJilstophclcs. No, Lord ! I find 

all there, as ever, bad at best. 
Even I am sorry for man's days of sor- 
row ; 
I could myself almost give up the 

pleasure 
Of plaguing the poor things. 
The Lord. Knowest thou Faust ? 
Mepliistophcles. The Doctor? 
Tlie Lord. Ay ; my servant Faust. 
Mcphistophdcs. In truth 

He serves you in a fashion quite his 

own ; 
And t!ie fool's meat and drink are not 

of earth. 
His aspirations bear him on so far 
Tliat he is half aware of his own folly. 
For he demands from Heaven its 

fairest star, 
And from the earth the highest joy it 

bears, 
Yet all things far, and all things near, 

are vain 
So calm the deep emotions of his 

breast. 
TJie Lord. Tho' he now serves me 

in a cloud of error, 
I will soon lead him forth to the clear 

day. 
When trees look green full well the 

gardener knows 
That fruits and blooms will deck the 

coming year. 
Mcphlstophcleii. What will you bet 

—now I am sure of winning- 
Only, observe you give me full per- 
mission 
TO lead him softly on my path. 

The Lord. As long 

As he shall live upon the earth, so 

long 
Is nothing unto thee forbidden— Man 



Must err till he has ceased to struggle 
Mcplilstopheles. Thanks 

And that is all I ask ; for willingly 
I never made acquaintance witli th< 

dead. 
The full fresh cheeks of youth are foo( 

for me. 
And if a corpse knocks, I am not a 

home. 
For I am like a cat— I like to play 
A little with the mouse before I eat it 
The Lord. Well, well ! it is per 

mitted thee. Draw thou 
His spirit from its springs ; as thor 

find'st power, 
Seize him and lead him on thy down 

ward path ; 
And stand ashamed when failun 

teaches thee 
That a good man, even in his darkes: 

longings. 
Is well aware of the right way. 

Mep}ii.'itop}ielct<. Well and good 

I am not in much doubt about my bet 
And if I lose, then 't is your turn t< 

crow ; 
Enjoy your triumph then with a full 

breast. 
Ay ; dust shall he devour, and tha 

with pleasure, 
Like my old paramour, the famou 

Snake. 
The Lord. Pray come here when i 

suits j'ou ; for I never 
Had much dislike for people of youi 

.sort. 
And, among all the Spirits who r- 

belled. 
The knave was ever the least tedioul 

to me. 
The active spirit of man soon sleep; 

and soon 
He seeks unbroken quiet ; therefore | 
Have given him the Devil for a con^ 

panion, 
Who may provoke him to some sort o 

work, 
And must create for ever.— But yet 

pure ' 

Children of God, enjoy eterna 

beauty ;— 
Let that which ever operates and live:||,; 
Clasp you within the limits of its love 
And seize with sweet and melanchol; 

thoughts 
The floating phantoms of its loveliness 
\ Heaven closes; the Archayigels ca:| 

eunt. 
Mephh^topJiclcs. From time to tim 

I visit the old fellow, 
And I take care to keep on good term 

with him. 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE. 



497 



Civil enough is the same God Al- 
mighty, 

To talk so freely with the Devil him- 
self. 



I 

SCENE II.— May-day Night. 
Scene.— T/ic Hartz Mountain, a deso- 
late CoiDitnj. 
Faust, Mephistopheles. 

Ideph istophcles. Would you not like 
a broomstick ? As for me 
[ wish I had a good stout ram to ride ; 
Jov we are still far from the appointed 

place. 
Faufit. This knotted staff is help 

enough for me, 
iVhilst I feel fresh upon my legs. 

What good 
s there in making short a pleasant 

way ? 
Co creep along the labyrinths of the 

vales, 
^nd climb those rocks where ever-bab- 
bling springs, 
'recipitate themselves in waterfalls, 
s the true sport that seasons such a 

path. 
Already Spring kindles the birchen 

spray, 
\.nd the hoar pines already feel her 

breath : 
Ihall she not work also within our 

limbs ! 
Mcph istopheles. Nothing of such an 

influence do I feel. 
ly body is all wintry, and I wish 
'he flowers upon our path were frost 

and snow, 
iut see how melancholy rises now, 
)imly uplifting her belated beam, 
'he blank unwelcome round of the red 

moon, 
.nd gives so bad a light, that every 

step 
ine stumbles 'gainst some crag. With 

your permission, 
'11 call an Ignis-fatuus to our aid : 
see one yonder burning jollily. 
alloo, my friend ! may I request that 

you 
/"ould favor us with 3'our bright com- 
pany ? 
Thy should you blaze away there to 

no purpose ? 
ray be so good as light us up this way. 
Ignis-fatuus. With reverence be it 

spoken, I will try 
3 overcome the lightness of my na- 
ture : 

32 



Our course, you know, is generally zig- 
zag. 
Mephistopheles. Ha, ha ! your wor- 

i,r-., ^'"P thinks you have to deal 

With men. Go straight on, in the 
Devil's name. 

Or I shall puff your flickering life out 
Ignis-fatuus. -vygfj 

I see you are the master of the house • 

1 will accommodate my.self to you. 

Only consider that to-night this moun- 
tain 

Is all enchanted, and if a Jack-a-lan- 
teru 

Shows you his way, tho' you should 
miss your own, 

You ought not to be too exact with 
him. 

Faust, Mephistopheles, and Ignis- 
fatuus, /)( alternate Chorus. 
The limits of the sphere of dream 
The bounds of true and false, are 
past. 
Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam 
Lead us onward, far and fast, ' 
To the wide, the desert waste. 

But see, how swift advance and shift 
Trees behind trees, row by row — 

How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift 
Their frowning foreheads as we go 
Ihe giant-snouted crags, ho ! ho ' 
How they snort, and how they blow ! 

Thro' the mossy sods and stones, 
Stream and streamlet hurry down— 
A rushing throng ! A sound of 
song 
Beneath the vault of Heaven is 
blown ! 
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones 
Of this bright day, sent down to .say 

That Paradise on Earth is known 
Resound around, beneath, above 
All we hope and all we love 
Finds a voice in this blithe strain. 
Which wakens hill and wood and rill 
And vibrates far o'er field and vale, 
And which Ecno, like the tale 
Of old times, repeats again. 

To-whoo ! to-whoo ! near, nearer now 
The sound of song, the rushing throng ' 
Are the screech, the lapwing, and the 

jay, 

All awake as if 't were day ? 

See, with long legs and belly wide, 

A salamander in the brake ! 

Every root is like a snake, 



498 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE. 



And along the loose hillside, 

With strange contortions thro' the 

night. 
Curls, to seize or to affright ; 
And, animated, strong, and many, 
They dart forth polypus-antennae, 
To blister with their poison spume 
The wanderer. Thro' the dazzling 

gloom 
The many-colored mice, that thread 
The dewy turf beneath our tread, 
In troops each other's motions cross. 
Thro' the heath and thro' the moss ; 
And, in legions intertangled. 
The fire- flies flit, and swarm, and 
throng, 
Till all the mountain depths are span- 
gled. 

Tell me, shall we go or stay ? 
Shall we onward ? Come along ! 
Everything around is swept 
Forward, onward, far away ! 
Trees and masses intercept 
The sight, and wisps on every side 
Are puffed up and multiplied. 
Mei>]iist(>i>Jiihs. Now vigorously 
seize my skirt, and gain 
This pinnacle of isolated crag. 
One may observe with wonder from 

this point, 
How Mammon grows among the moun- 
tains. 
Faust. Ay— 

And strangely thro' the solid depths 

below 
A melancholy light, like the red dawn, 
Shoots from the lowest gorge of the 

abyss 
Of mountains, lightning hitherward : 

there rise 
Pillars of smoke, here clouds float 

gently by ; 
Here the light burns soft as the en- 
kindled air, 
Or the illumined dust of golden flow- 
ers ; 
And now it glides like tender colors 

spreading ; 
And now bursts forth in fountains from 

the earth ; 
And now it winds, one torrent of broad 

light, 
Thro' the far valley with a hundred 

veins ; 
And now once more within that nar- 
row corner 
Masses itself into intensest splendor. 
And near us, see, sparks spring out of 

the ground. 
Like golden sand scattered upon the 
darkness ; 



The pinnacles of that black wall of 

mountains 
That hems us in are kindled. | 

Mcp}ii><tophelcs. Rare: in faith i 
Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illu-i 

minate 
His palace for this festival— it is 
A pleasure which you had not knowr 

before. 
I spy the boisterous guests already. 

Fdit^t. How, 

The children of the wind rage in the, 

air 1 
With what fierce strokes they fall upoi 

my neck ! 

Mephistophehs. 

Cling tightlv to the old ribs of the crag. 
Beware'! for if with them thoi- 
warrest 
In their fierce flight towards th( 
wilderness, 
Their breath will sweep thee into dust 
and drag 
Thy body to a grave in the abyss. 
A cloud thickens the night. 
Hark ! how the tempest crashei 
thro' the forest ! 
The owls fly out in Strang 
affright ; 
The columns of the evergreen palace? 
Are split and shattered ; 
The roots creak, and stretch, an 

groan ; 
And ruinously overthrown. 
The trunks are crusht and sha1 
tered 
By the fierce blast's unconquerabl 
stress. I *^ 

Over each other crack and crash the 
In terrible and intertangled fall ; 
And thro' the ruins of the shake 
mountain 
The airs hiss and howl- 
It is not the voice of the fountain. 
Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. 
Dost thou not hear ? 

Strange accents are ringing 
Aloft, afar, anear ? 
The witches are singing ! 
The torrent of a raging wizard song 
Streams the whole mountain along 



The 



Chorus of Witches. 
stubble is yellow, the corn 



green. 

Now to the Brocken the witches g( 
The mighty multitude here may I 

seen , . , 

Gathering, wizard and witch, belo\ 



SCENES VnOM THE FAUST OF GOETHE. 



499 



Sir Urian is sitting aloft in the air ; 

Hey over stoclf ! and liey over stone ! 

'Twixt witclies and incubi, what shall 
be done ? 
Tell it w^ho dare ! tell it who dare ! 

A 1^0 ice. 

Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were 
ni , 
Old Bciiibo rideth alone. 

Chorus. 

Honor her, to whom honor is due, 
Old mother Baubo, honor to you ! 
An able sow, with old Baubo upon 

hev, 
Is worthy of glory, and worthy of 

honor ! 
The legion of witches is coming behind. 
Darkening the night, and outspeeding 

the wind— 

A Voice. 
Which way comest thou ? 

A Voice. 

Over Usenstein ; 
The owl was awake in the white moon- 
shine ; 
I saw her at rest in her downy nest. 
And she stared at me with her broad, 
bright eyne. 

Voices. 

And you may now as well take your 
course on to Hell, 

Since you ride by so fast on the head- 
long blast. 

A Voice. 

She dropt poison upon me as I past. 
Here are the wounds — 

Chorus of V/itchcs. 

Come away ! come along ! 
The way is wide, the way is long. 
But what is that for a Bedlam throng ? 
Stick with the prong, and scratch with 

the broom. 
The child in the cradle lies strangled 

at home, 
And the mother is clapping her 

hands.— 

Semichorns of Wizards 1. 

We glide in 
Like snails when the women are all 
away ; 



And from a house once given over to 
sin 
Woman has a thousand steps to 
stray. 

Semichorus II. 

A thousand steps must a woman take 
Where a man but a single spring will 
make. 

Voices above. 

Come with us, come with us, from 
Felsensee. 

Voices below. 

With what joy would we fly thro' 
the upper sky ! 
We are washed, we are 'nointed, stark 
naked are we ; 
But our toil and our pain are for ever 
in vain. 

Both Choruses. 

The wind is still, the stars are fled. 
The melancholy moon is dead ; 
The magic notes, like spark on spark, 
Drizzle, whistling thro' the dark. 
Come away ! 

Voices below. 

Stay, oh stay ! 

Voices above. 

Out of the crannies of the rocks, 
Who calls ? 

Voices beloiv. 

Oh, let me join your flocks ! 
I, three hundred years have striven 
To catch your skirt and mount to 

Heaven, — 
And still in vain. Oh, might I be 
With company akin to me ! 

Both Choruses. 

Some on a ram and some on a prong. 
On poles and on broomsticks we flutter 

along ; 
Forlorn is the wight who can rise not 

to-night. 

A Half-Witch below. 

I have been tripping this many an 

hour : 
Are the others already so far before ? 
No quiet at home, and no peace 

abroad ! 
And less methinks is found by the road. 



500 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE. 



Chorus of Witches. 

Come onward, away ! aroint thee, 

aroint I 
A witcli to be strong must anoint— 

anoint — 
Then every trough will be boat enough ; 
With a rag for a sail we can sweep 

thro' the sky, 
Who flies not to-night, when means he 

to fly ? 

Both Chontses. 

We cling to the sliirt, and we strike on 

the ground ; 
Witch-legions thicken around and 

around ; 
Wizard-swarms cover the heath all 

over. 

\T1icy descend. 

Mcj)histophclcs. 
What thronging, dashing, raging, 

rustling ; 
What whispering, babbling, hissing, 

bustling ; 
What glimmering, spurting, stinking, 

burning, 
As Heaven and Earth were overturn- 
ing. 
There is a true witch element about us; 
Take hold on me, or we shall be 

divided :— 
Where are you ? 
Faust (from a distance). Here ! 
Mc])histophcles. What ! 

I must exert my authority in the house. 
Place for young Voland ! pray make 

way, good people. 
Take hold on me, doctor, and with one 

step 
Let us escape from this unpleasant 

crowd : 
They are too mad for people of my sort. 
Just there shines a peculiar kind of 

light- 
Something attracts me in those bushes. 

Come 
This way : we shall slip down there in 

a minute. 
F((vst. Spirit of Contradiction ! 

Well; lead on— 
'T were a wise feat indeed to wander 

out 
Into the Brocken upon May-day night, 
And then to isolate oneself in scorn, 
Disgusted with the httmorsof the time. 
Mcpliixtophclrs. See j^onder, round 

a many-colored flame 
A merry club is huddled all together : 
Even with such little people as sit 

there 



One would not be alone. 

Faust. Would that I were 

•Up yonder in the glow and whirling 

smoke, 
Where the blind million rush impetu- 
ously 
To meet the evil ones ; there might I 

solve 
Many a riddle that torments me ! 

Mcphistophclcs. Yet 

Many a riddle there is tied anew 
Inextricably. Let the great world 

rage ! 
We will stay here safe in the quiet 

dwellings. 
'T is an old custom. Men have ever 

built 
Their own small world in the great 

world of all. 
I see young witches naked there, and 

old ones 
Wisely attired with greater decency. 
Be guided now by me, and you shall 

buy 
A pound of pleasure with a dram of 

trouble. 
I hear them tune their instruments — 

one must 
Get used to this damned scraping. 

Come, I'll lead you 
Among them ; and what there you do 

and see. 
As a fresh compact 'twixt us two shall 

be. 
How say you now ? this space is wide 

enough — 
Look forth, you cannot see the end of 

it— 
A hundred bonfi.res burn in rows, and 

they 
Who throng around them seem innum- 
erable : 
Dancing and drinking, jabbering, mak- 
ing love, 
And cooking, are at work. Now tell 

me, friend, 
What is there better in the world than 

this? 
Faust. In introducing us, do you 

assume 
The character of wizard or of devil ? 
Mcjihistophcles. In truth, I gener- 
ally go about 
In strict incognito ; and yet one likes 
To wear one's orders upon gala days. 
I have no ribbon at my knee ; but 

here 
At home, the cloven foot is honorable. 
See you that snail there ? — she comes 

creeping up, 
And with her feeling eyes hath smelt 

out something. 



SCENES FRO>[ THE FaUST OF GOETHE. 



501 



I could not, if I would, mask mJ^self 
here. 

Come now, we'll go about from fire to 
fire : 

I'll be the pimp, and you shall be the 
lover. 
\To some old Women, who are sit- 
ting rotind a heap of gUmmcr- 
ing coals. 

Old gentlewomen, what do you do out 
here ? 

You ought to be with the young rioters 

Right in the thickest of the revelry— 

But every one is best content at home. 

General. 

Who dare confide in right or a just 
claim ? 
So much as I have done for them ! 
and now— 
With women and the people 't is the 
same, 
Youth will stand foremost ever,— 
age may go 
To the dark grave unhonored 

Minister. 

Nowadays 
People assert their rights : they go 
too far ; 
But as for me, the good old times I 
praise ; 
Then we were all in all, 't was 
something worth 
One's while to be in place and wear 
a star ; 
That was indeed the golden age 
on earth. 

Parvenu. 

We too are active, and we did and do 
What we ought not, perhaps ; and yet 

we now 
Will seize, whilst all things are whirled 

round and round, 
A spoke of Fortune's wheel, and keep 

our ground. 

Author. 

Who now can taste a treatise of deep 
sense 

And ponderous volume ? 't is imperti- 
nence 

To write what none will read, there- 
fore will I 

To please the young and thoughtless 
people try. 
MephistopJielcs {who at once ap- 
prar-s to have gronm very old). 



I find the people ripe for the last 
day. 
Since I last came up to the wizard 

mountain ; 
And as my little cask runs turbid now. 
So is the world drained to the dregs. 

PciJlitr-ivitcli. Look here. 

Gentlemen ; do not hurry on so fast 
And lose the chance of a good penny- 
worth. 
I have a pack full of the choicest wares 
Of every sort, and yet in all my bundle 
Is nothing like what may be found on 

earth ; 
Nothing that in a moment will make 

rich 
Men and the world with fine malicious 

mischief- 
There is no dagger drunk with blood ; 

no bowl 
From which consuming poison may be 

drained 
By innocent and healthy lips ; no jewel. 
The price of an abandoned maiden's 

shame ; 
No sword which cuts the bond it can- 
not loose, 
Or stabs the wearer's enemy in the 

back ; 

No 

Mephlstophclcs. Gossip, you 

know little of these times. 
What has been, has been ; what is 

done, is past. 
They shape themselves into the inno- 
vations 
They breed, and innovation drags us 

with it. 
The torrent of the crowd sweeps over 

us : 
You think to impel, and are yourself 

impelled. 
Faust. Who is that yonder ? 
Mcphistopheles. Mark her well. 

It is 
Lilith. 
Faust. Who ? 

Mephistopheles. Lilith, the first 

wife of Adam. 
Beware of her fair hair, for she excels 
All women in the magic of her locks ; 
And when she winds them round a 

young man's neck, 
She will not ever set him free again. 



Faust. 

There sit a girl and an old woman— 

they 
Seem to be tired with pleasure and 

with play. 



502 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE. 



Mephistophelcs. 

There is no rest to-night for any one : 
When one dance ends another is be- 
gun ; 
Come, let us to it. We shall have rare 
fun. 
[Faust dances and sings with a Qirl 
and Mephistopheles zvith an 
old Woman. 

Faust. 

I had once a lovelj' dream 
In which I saw an apple tree, 

Where two fair apples with their 
gleam 
To climb and taste attracted me. 

Tiic Girl. 

She with apples you desired 
From Paradise came long ago : 

With you I feel that if required, 
Such still within my garden grow. 



Procto-Phantasmist. What is this 
cursed multitude about ? 

Have we not long since proved to dem- 
onstration 

That ghosts move not on ordinary feet ? 

But these are dancing just like men 
and women. 
The Girl. What does he want then 

at our ball ? 
Faust. Oh ! he 

Is far above us all in his conceit : 

Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoy- 
ment ; 

And any step which in our dance we 
tread. 

If it be left out of his reckoning. 

Is not to be considered as a step. 

There are few things that scandalize 
him not : 

And when you whirl round in the circle 
now, 

As he went round the wheel in his old 
mill, 

He says that you go wrong in all re- 
spects. 

Especially if you congratulate him 

Upon the strength of the resemblance. 
Procto-Phantasmist. Fly ! 

Vanish ! Unheard-of impudence ! 
What, still there ! 

In this enlightened age too, since you 
have been 

Proved not to exist !— But this infer- 
nal brood 

Will hear no reason and endure no 
rule. 



Are we so wise, and is the pond still 

haunted ? 
How long have I been sweeping out 

this rubbish 
Of superstition, and the world will not 
Come clean with all my pains ! — it is a 

case 
Unheard of ! 
TlieGirl. Then leave off 

teasing us so. 
Procto-Pliantasmist. I tell you, 

spirits, to your faces now. 
That I should not regret this despotism 
Of .spirits, but that mine can wield it 

not. 
To-night I shall make poor work of 

it. 
Yet I will take a round with you, and 

hope 
Before my last step in \.he living dance 
To beat the poet and the devil to- 
gether. 
Mephistophelcs. At last he will sit 

down in some foul puddle ; 
That is his way of solacing himself ; 
Until some leech, diverted with his 

gravity, 
Cures him of spirits and the spirit to- 
gether. 
[To Faust, tvho has seceded from 

the dance. 
Why do you let that fair girl pass from 

you. 
Who sang so sweetly to you in the 

dance ? 
Faust. A red mouse in the middle 

of her singing 
Sprang from her mouth. 
Mcphisto2:)hcles. That was all 

right, my friend : 
Be it enough that the mouse was not 

gray. 
Do not disturb your hour of happiness 
With clo.se considei'ation of such trifles. 

Faust. Then saw I 

Mephistophelcs. What ? 

Faust. Seest thou not a pale. 

Fair girl, standing alone, far, far 

away? 
She drags herself now forward with 

slow steps. 
And seems as if she moved with 

shackled feet : 
I cannot overcome the thought that 

she 
Is like poor Margaret. 
Mephistophelcs. Let it be— 

pass on — 
No good can come of it — it is not 

well 
To meet it — it is an enchanted phan- 
tom, 



EPITAPHIUM. 



503 



A lifeless idol ; with its numbing 

look, 
It freezes up the blood of man ; and 

they 
Who meet its ghastly stare are turned 

to stone, 
Like those who saw Medusa. 

Favst. Oh, too true ! 

Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh 

corpse 
Which no beloved hand has closed, 

alas ! 
That is the breast which Margaret 

yielded to me — 
Those are the lovely limbs which I en- 
joyed ! 
Mcphistophclcs. It is all magic, 

poor deluded fool ! 
She looks to every one like his first 

love. 
Favst. Oh, what delight ! what 

woe ! I cannot turn 
Mj' looks from her sweet piteous coun- 
tenance. 
How strangely does a single blood-red 

line. 
Not broader than the sharp edge of a 

knife, 
Adorn her lovely neck ! 

Mtphistophclcs. Ay, she can carry 
Her head under her arm upon occa- 
sion ; 
Perseus has cut it off for her. These 

pleasures 
End in delusion.— Gain this rising 

ground. 
It is as airy here as in a . . . 
And if I am not mightily deceived, 
I see a theatre— What may this 

mean ! 
Attendant. Quite a new piece, the 

last of seven, for 't is 
The custom now to represent that 

number. 
'T is written by a Dilettante, and 
The actors who perform are Dilettanti ; 
Excuse me, gentlemen ; but I must 

vanish. 
I am a Dilettante curtain-lifter. 



JUVENILIA. 
VERSES ON A CAT. 
I. 
A CAT in distress. 
Nothing more, nor less , 
Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye, 
As I am a sinner. 
Waits for some dinner 
To stuff out its own little belly. 



You would not easily guess 

All the modes of distress 
Which torture the tenants of earth ; 

And the various evils, 

Which like so many devils, 
Attend the poor souls from their birth. 



III. 

Some a living require, 

And others desire 
An old fellow out of the way ; 

And which is the best 

I leave to be guessed. 
For I cannot pretend to say. 



One wants society, 
Another variety, 

Others a tranquil life ; 
Some want food, 
Others, as good. 

Only want a wife. 



But this poor little cat 

Only wanted a rat. 
To stuff out its own little maw : 

And it were as good 

Some people had such food. 
To make them hold their jaw ! 



FRAGMENT : OMENS. 

Hark ! the owlet flaps his wings 
In the pathless dell beneath ; 

Hark ! 't is the night-raven sings 
Tidings of approaching death. 

EPITAPHIUM. 

[Latin Version of the Epitaph in 
Gray's Elegy. J 

I. 

Hic sinu fessum caput hospitali 
Cespitis dormit juvenis, nee illi 
Fata ridebant, popularis ille 

Nescius aurse. 



Musa non vulta genus arroganti 
Rustica natum grege despicata, 
Et suum tristis puerumnotavit 

Sollicitudo. 



504 



IN HOROLOGTUM. 



jidoles i!li bene larga, pectus 
Veritas sedem sibi vindicavit, 
Et pari tantis meritis beavit 

Munere coeliim. 

IV. 

Onine quod moestis habuit miserto 
Corde largivit lacrymam, recepit 
Omne quod coelo voluit, ftdelis 

Pectus aniici. 



Longius sed tu fuge curiosus 
Caeteras laudes fuge suspicari, 
Cseteras culpas fuge velle trectas 

Sede tremenda. 

VI. 

Spe tremescentes recubant in ilia 
Sede virtutes pariterque culp*, 
In sui Patris gremio, tremenda 

Sede Deique. 

IN HOROLOGIUM. 

Inter marmoreas Leonorfe pendula 

colles 
Fortunata nimis Machina dicit horas. 
Quas VKtnihus permit ilia duasinsensa 

papillas 
Cur mihi sit dUjito tangere, amata, 

nefas ? 



SONG FROM THE WANDERING 
JEW. 

See yon opening flower 

Spreads its fragrance to the blast ; 
It fades within an hour, 

Its decay is pale— is fast. 
Paler is yon maiden ; 

Faster is her heart's decay ; 
Deep with sorrow laden, 

She sinks in death away. 

FRAGMENT FROM THE 
WANDERING JEW. 

The Elements respect their Maker's 
seal ! 
Still like the scathed pine tree's 

height, 
Braving the tempests of the night 
Have I 'scap'd the bickering flame. 
Ijike the scath'd pine, which a monu- 
ment stands 
Of faded grandeur, which the brands 
Of the tempest-shaken air 



Have riven on the desolate heath ; 
Yet it stands majestic even in death, 
And rears its wild form there._ 

A DIALOGUE. 
DEATH. 

For my dagger is bathed in tlie blood 
of the brave, 

I come, care-worn tenant of life, from 
the grave, 

Where Innocence sleeps 'neath the 
peace-giving sod, 

And the good cease to tremble at Tyr- 
anny's nod ; 

I offer a calm habitation to thee. 

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber 
with me ? 

My mansion is damp, cold silence is 
there. 

But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of de- 
spair, 

Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a 
breath. 

Dares dispute with grim Silence the 
empire of Death. 

I offer a calm habitation to thee. 

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber 
with me ? 

MORTAL. 

Mine eyelids are heavy ; my soul seeks 
repose. 

It longs in thy cells to embosom its 
woes, 

It longs in thy cells to deposit its load. 

Where no longer the scorpions of Per- 
fidy goad ; 

Where the phantoms of Prejudice 
vanish away. 

And Bigotry's bloodhounds lose scent 
of their prey ; 

Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine 
empire is o'er. 

What awaits on Futurity's mist- 
covered shore ? 

DEATH. 

Cease, cease, wayward Mortal ! I dare 

not unveil 
The shadows that float o'er Eternity's 

vale ; 
Naught waits for the good but a 

spirit of Love, 
That will hail their blest advent to 

regions above. 
For Love, Mortal, gleams thro' the 

gloom of my sway. 
And the shades which surround me fly 

fast at its ray. 



TO DEATH. 



505 



jHast thou loved ?— Then depart from 

these regions of hate, 
I And in slumber with me blunt the 

arrows of fate. 
[ ofifer a calm habitation to thee, 
Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber 

with me V 



Oh, sweet is thy slumber ! oh ! sweet 

is the ray 
Which after thy night introduces the 

day ; 

How concealed, how persuasive, self- 
interest's breath, 
rho' it floats to mine ear from the 

bosom of Death ! 
[ hoped that I quite was forgotten by 

all. 
Yet a lingering friend might be 

grieved at my fall, 
A.nd duty forbids, tho' I languish to 

die, 
When departure might heave Virtue's 

breast with a sigh. 
Death ! O my friend ! snatch this 

form to thy shrine, 
And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not 

repine. 



TO THE MOONBEAM. 



Moonbeam, leave the shadowy vale. 

To bathe this burning brow. 
Moonbeam, why art thou so pale, 
As thou walkest o'er the dewy dale. 
Where humble wild-flowers grow ? 
Is it to mimic me ? 
But that can never be ; 
For thine orb is bright, 
And the clouds are light, 
That at intervals shadow the star- 
studded night. 



Now all is deathly still on earth. 

Nature's tired frame reposes, 
And ere the golden morning's birth 
Its radiant hues discloses, 

Flies forth its balmy breath. 
But mine is the midnight of 

Death, 
And Nature's morn, 
To my bosom forlorn. 
Brings but a gloomier night, implants 
a deadlier thorn. 



III. 

Wretch ! Suppress the glare of mad- 
ness 
Struggling in thine haggard eye. 
For the keenest throb of sadness. 
Pale Despair's most sickening sigh. 
Is but to mimic me ; 
And this must ever be. 
When the twilight of care, 
And the night of despair, 
Seem in my breast but joys to the 
pangs that rankle there. 

THE SOLITARY. 



Dar'st thou amid the varied multi- 
tude 
To live alone, an isolated thing ? 
To see the bu.sy beings round thee 
spring 
And care for none ; in thy calm soli- 
tude, 
A flower that scarce breathes in the 
desert rude 
To Zephyr's passing wing ? 



Not the swart Pariah in some Indian 
grove. 
Lone, lean, and hunted by his 

brother's hate. 
Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter 
fate 
As that poor wretch who cannot, can- 
not love : 
He bears a load which nothing can 
remove, 
A killing, withering weight. 

III. 

He smiles — 't is sorrow's deadliest 
mockery ; 
He speaks— the cold words flow not 

from his soul ; 
He acts like others, drains the genial 
bowl,— 
Yet, yet he longs — altho' he fears — to 

die ; 
He pants to reach what yet he seems to 

fly, 

Dull life's extremest goal. 

TO DEATH. 

Death ! where is thy victory ? 
To triumph whilst I die, 
To triumph whilst thine ebon wing 



506 



LOVES KOSE. 



Infolds my shuddering soul. 
O Death ! where is thy sting ? 
Not when the tides of murder roll, 
When nations groan, that kings may 

bask in bliss. 
Death ! canst thou boast a victory such 
at this P 
"When in his hour of pomp and 
power 
His blow the mightiest murderer 

gave, 
Mid nature's cries the sacrifice 
Of millions to glut the grave ; 
When sunk the tyrant desolation's 

slave ; 
Or Freedom's life-blood streamed upon 

thy shrine ; 
Stern tyrant, couldst thou boast a vic- 
tory such as mine ? 



To know in dissolution's void. 

That mortals' baubles sunk, decay. 
That everything, but Love, destroyed 
Must perish with its kindred clay. 
Perish Ambition's crown. 
Perish iier sceptred sway ; 
From Death's pale front fades Pride's 

fastidious frown. 
In Death's damp vault the lurid fires 

decay. 
That Envy lights at heaven-born Vir- 
tue's beam — 
That all the cares subside, 
Which'lurk beneath the tide 
Of life's unquiet stream. 
Yes ! this is victory ! 
And on yon rock, whose dark form 

glooms the sky. 
To stretch these pale limbs, when the 
soul is fled ; 
To baffle the lean passions of their 

prey, 

To sleep wittiin the palace of the 
dead ! 

Oh ! not the King, around whose daz- 
zling throne 
His countless courtiers mock the 
words they say, 

Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown, 

As I in this cold bed, and faint expir- 
ing groan ! 

Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur 
mocks the woe, 
Which props the column of unnat- 
ural state, 
You the plainings faint and low. 
From misery's tortured soul that 
flow. 
Shall usher to your fate. 



Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fel 

command 
The war-fiend riots o'er a peaceful land 
You desolation's gory throng 
Shall bear the Victory along 
To that mysterious strand. 



LOVE'S ROSE. 
I. 

Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts.- 

Live not thro' the waste of time ? 
Love's rose a host of thorns invests ; 

Cold, ungenial is the clime, 

Where its honors blow. 
Youth says. The purple fiowers are! 
mine. 

Which die the while they glow. 

II. 

Dear the boon to Fancy given. 

Retracted whilst it's granted : 
Sweet the rose which lives in heaven, 

Altho' on earth 't is planted. 

Where its honors blow. 
While by earth's slaves the leaves are| 
riven 

Which die the while they glow. 



Age cannot Love destroy, 
But perfidy can blast the flower. 
Even when in most unwary hour 
It blooms in Fancy's bower. 
Age cannot Love destroy. 
But perfidy can rend the shrine 
In which its vermeil splendors shine. 

EYES : A FRAGMENT. 

How eloquent are eyes ! 
Not the rapt poet's frenzied lay 
When the soul's wildest feelings strayi 

Can speak so well as they. 

How eloquent are eyes ! 
Not music's most impassioned note 
On which love's warmest fervors float 

Like them bids rapture rise. 

Love, look thus again, — 
That your look may light a waste of 

years, 
Darting the beam that conquers cares 

Thro' the cold shower of tears. 

Love, look thus again ! 



POEMS FROM ST. [RVYNE, OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 



507 



POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR 
THE ROSICRUCIAN. 

I.— Victoria. 



'T WAS dead of the uight, when I sat 

in my dwelling ; 
One glimmering lamp was expiring 

and low ; 
Around, the dark tide of the tempest 

was swelling, 
^long the wild mountains night-ravens 

were yelling, 
They bodingly presaged destruction 

and woe. 



'T was then that I started '.—the wild 
storm was howling, 
Nought was seen, save the lightning, 
which danced in the sky ; 
Above me, the crash of the thunder 
was rolling, 
And low, chilling murmurs, tlie blast 
wafted by. 



III. 



My heart sank within me— unheeded 
the war 
Of the battling clouds, on the moun- 
tain-tops, broke ; — 

Unheeded the thunder-peal crasht in 
mine ear — 

This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to 
fear. 
But conscience in low, noiseless whis- 
pering spoke. 

IV. 

T was then that her form on the whirl- 
wind upholding. 
The ghost of the murder'd Victoria 
strode ; 
In her right hand, a shadowy shroud 
she was holding, 
She swiftly advanc'd to my lonesome 
abode. 



I wildly then call'd on the tempest to 
bear me — 



II.— "On the Dark Height of 
Jura." 



Ghosts of the dead ! have I not heard 
your yelling 
Rise on the night-rolling breath of 
the blast. 
When o'er the dark ether the tempest 
is swelling, 
And on eddying whirlwind the thun- 
der-peal past ? 



II. 



For oft have I stood on the dark height 
of Jura, 
Which frowns on the valley that 
opens beneath ; 
Oft have I brav'd the chill night-tem- 
pest's fury. 
Whilst around me, I thought, echo'd 
murmurs of death. 



And now, whilst the winds of the 
mountain are howling, 
O father ! thy voice seems to strike 
on mine ear ; 
In air whilst the tide of the night- 
storm is rolling. 
It breaks on the pause of the ele- 
ments' jar. 



On the wing of the whirlwind which 
roars o'er the mountain 

Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who 
is dead ; 

On the mist of the tempest which 
hangs o'er the fountain. 

Whilst a wreath of dark vapor en- 
circles his head. 

III.— Sister Rosa : A Ballad. 



I. 



The death-bell beats !— 

The mountain repeats 
The echoing sound of the knell ; 

And the dark monk now 

Wraps the cowl round his brow, 
As he sits in his lonely cell. 

II. 

And the cold hand of death 
Chills his shuddering breath. 



508 POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 



As he lists to the fearful lay 
Which the ghosts of the sky, 
As they sweep wildly by, 

Sing to departed day. 
And they sing of the hour 
When the stern fates had power 

To resolve Rosa's form to its clay. 



But that hour is past ; 

And that hour was the last 
Of peace to the dark monk's bi'ain. 

Bitter tears, from his eyes, gusht 
silent and fast ; 
And he strove to'suppre.ss them in vain. 

IV. 

Then his fair cross of gold he dasht 
on the floor, 
When the death-knell struck on his ear. 

Delight is in store 

For her evermore ; 
But for me is fate, horror, and fear. 



Then his eyes wildly roll'd. 
When the death-bell toll'd. 

And he raged hi terrific woe. 
And he stamped on the ground,- 
But when ceast the sound. 

Tears again began to flow. 



And the Ice of despair 
Chill'd the wild throb of care. 
And he sale in mute agony still ; 
Till the night-stars shone thro' the 
cloudless air, 
And the pale moonbeam slept on the 
hill. 

VII. 

Then he knelt in his cell : — 

And the horrors of hell 
Were delights to his agonized pain. 

And he prayed to God to dissolve the 
spell, 
Which else must for ever remain. 

VIII. 

And in fervent prayer he knelt on the 
ground. 
Till the abbey bell struck One ; 
His feverish blood ran chill at the 

sound : 
A voice hollow and horrible murmured 
around— 
" The term of thy penance is done ! " 



Grew dark the night ; 

The moonbeam bright 
Waxt faint on the mountain high ; 

And, from the black hill, 

Went a voice cold and still,— 
"Monk ! thou art free to die." 



Then he rose on his feet. 
And his heart loud did beat, 
And his limbs they were palsied with i 
dread ; 
Whilst the grave's clammy dew 
O'er his pale forehead grew ; 
And he shuddered to sleep with the 
dead. 



And the wild midnight storm 
Raved around his tall form, 

As he sought the chapel's gloom : 
And the sunk grass did sigh 
To the wind, bleak and high, 

As he searcht for the new-made tomb. 



And forms, dark and high, 

Seemed around him to fly. 
And mingle their yells with the blast : 

And on the dark wall 

Half-seen shadows did fall. 
As enhorrored he onward past. 

XIII. 

And the storm-fiend's wild rave 

O'er the new-made gi-ave, 
And dread shadows, linger around. 

The Monk called on God his soul to 
save. 
And, in horror, sank on the ground. 

XIV. 

Then despair nerved his arm 

To dispel the charm. 
And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder. 

And the fierce storm did swell 

More terrific and fell, 
And louder pealed the thunder. 

XV. 

And laught, in joy, the fiendish throng, 
Mixt with ghosts of the mouldering 
dead : 
And their grisly wings, as they floated 
along, 
Whistled in murmurs dread. 



POEMS FROM ST. lUVYNE, OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 509 



And her skeleton form the dead Nun 
reared 
Which dript with the chill dew of 
hell. 
In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale 

flames appeared, 
And triumphant their gleam on the 
dark Monk glared, 
As he stood within the cell. 

XVII. 

And her lank hand lay on his shudder- 
ing brain ; 
But each power was nerved by 
fear.— 
" I never, henceforth, may breathe 

again ; 
Death now ends mine anguisht pain. — 
The grave yawns,— we meet there." 

XVIII. 

And her skeleton lungs did utter the 
sound, 
So deadly, so lone, and so fell. 
That in long vibrations shuddered the 

ground ; 
And as the stern notes floated around, 
A deep groan was answered from 
hell. 

IV.— St. Irvyne's Tower. 
I. 

How swiftly thro' heaven's wide ex- 
panse 
Bright day's resplendent colors fade ! 
How sweetly does the moonbeam's 
glance 
With silver tint St. Irvyne's glade ! 

II. 

No cloud along the spangled air, 
Is borne upon the evening breeze ; 

How solemn is the scene ! how fair 
The moonbeams rest upon the trees ! 



Yon dark gray turret glimmers white. 
Upon it sits the mournful owl ; 

Along the stillness of the night. 
Her melancholy shriekings roll. 



But not alone on Irvyne's tower. 
The silver moonbeam pour.s her ray 

It gleams upon the ivied tower, 
It dances in the cascade's spray. 



v. 

"Ah ! why do darkening shades con- 
ceal 
The hour when man must cease to 
be ? 
Why may not human minds unveil 
The dim mists of futurity ? 

VI. 

" The keenness of the world hath torn 
The heart which opens to its blast ; 

Despised, neglected, and forlorn, 
Sinks the wretch in death at last." 



v.— Bereavement. 
I. 

How stern are the woes of the desolate 
mourner. 
As he bends in still grief o'er the 
hallowed bier. 

As enanguisht he turns from the laugh 
of the scorner, 
And drops, to perfection's remem- 
brance, a tear ; 

When floods of despair down his pale 
cheek are streaming, 

When no blissful hope on his bosom is 
beaming. 

Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts 
from his dreaming. 
And finds torn the soft ties to affec- 
tion so dear. 



Ah ! when shall day dawn on the night 

of the grave. 
Or summer succeed to the winter of 

death ? 
Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heav- 
en will save 
The spirit, that faded away with the 

breath. 
Eternity points in its amaranth bower, 
Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet 

prospect lower, 
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness 

the dower, 
When woe fades away like the mist 

of the heath. 

VI.— The Drowned Lover. 

I. 

Ah ! faint are her limbs, and her foot- 
step is weary. 
Yet far must the desolate wanderer 
roam ; 



510 



POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS. 



Tho' the tempest is stern, and the 

mountain is dreary, 
She must quit at deep midnight her 

pitiless home. 
I see her swift foot dash the dew from 

the whortle, 
As she rapidly hastes to the green 

grove of myrtle ; 
And 1 hear, as she wraps round her 

figure the kirtle, 
" Stay thy boat on the lake,— dearest 

Henry, I come." 

II. 

High swelled in her bosom the throb of 
affection, 
As lightly her form bounded over the 
lea. 

And arose in her mind every dear recol- 
lection ; 
" I come, dearest Henry, and wait 
but for thee." 

How .sad, when dear hope every sorrow 
is soothing. 

When sympathy's swell the soft bosom 
is mc^ving. 

And the mind the mild joys of affec- 
tion is proving. 
Is the stern voice of fate that bids 
happiness flee ! 

III. 

Oh ! dark lowered the clouds on that 
horrible eve. 
And the moon dimly gleamed thro' 
the tempested air ; 

Oh ! how could fond visions such soft- 
ness deceive ? 
Oh ! how could false hope rend a 
bosom so fair 'i 

Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges 
are laving. 

O'er his form the fierce swell of the 
tempest is raving ; 

But, fear not, parting spirit ; thy good- 
ness is saving. 
In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee 
there. 



POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF 
MARGARET NICHOLSON. 

Being Poems found amongst the Pa- 
pers of that noted Female, who at- 
tempted the life of the King in 1786. 
Edited by John Fitzvictor. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

The energy and native genius of 



these Fragments must be the only 
apology which the Editor can make for 
thus intruding them on the public no- 
tice. The first I found with no title, 
and have left it so. It is intimately 
connected with the dearest interests of 
univer.sal happiness ; and much as we 
may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic 
tendency which the ideas of this poor 
female had acquired, we cannot fail to 
pay the tribute of unequivocal regret 
to the departed memory of genius, 
which, had it been rightly organized, 
would have made that intellect, which 
has since become the victim of frenzy, 
and despair, a most brilliant ornamentt 
to society. 

In case the sale of these Fragments- 
evinces that the public have any curi- 
osity to be presented with a more copi-- 
ous collection of my unfortunate Aunt's- 
poems. I have other papers in my pos- 
session which shall, in that case, be' 
subjected to their notice. It may be 
supposed they require much arrange- 
ment ; but I send the following to the 
press in the .same state in which they 
came into my possession. J. F. 

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS. 

Ambitiox, power, and avarice, now 
have hurled 

Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding: 
world. 

See ! on yon heath what countless vic- 
tims lie. 

Hark ! what loud shrieks ascend thro' ' 
yonder sky ; 

Tell then the cause, 't is sure the aven- 
ger's rage 

Has swept these myriads from life's 
crowded stage : 

Hark to that groan, an anguisht hero ' 
dies, 

He shudders in death's latest agonies ; 

Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his 
cheek. 

Yet does his parting breath essay to 
speak — 
" Oh God ! my wife, my children,— 
Monarch, thou 

For whose support this fainting frame 
lies low ; 

For whose support in distant lands I 
bleed. 

Let his friends' welfare be the war- 
rior's meed. 

He hears me not — ah ! no — kings can- 
not hear. 

For passion's voice has dulled their 
listless ear. 



POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS, 



611 



To thee, then, mighty God, I lift- my 

moan, 
Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant's an- 

guisht groan. 
Oh ! now I die— but still is death's fierce 

pain — 
God hears my prayer — we meet, we 

meet again." 
He spake, reclined him on death's 

bloody bed, 
An \ with a parting groan his snirit 

fled. 
Oppressors of mankind to you we 

owe 
The baleful streams from whence these 

miseries flow ; 
For you how many a mother weeps her 

son, 
Snatcht from life's course ere half his 

race was run ! 
For you how many a widow drops a 

tear. 
In silent anguish, on her husband's 

bier ! 
" Is it then thine, Almighty Power," 

she cries, 
" Whence tears of endless sorrow dim 

these eyes ? 
Is this the system which thy powerful 

sway, 
"Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping 

lay, 
Formed and approved ? — it cannot be — 

but oh ! 
Forgive me. Heaven, my brain iswarpt 

by woe." 
'T is not— he never bade the war-note 

swell. 
He never triumpht in the work of 

hell— 
Monarchs of earth ! thine is the baleful 

deed, 
Thine are the crimes for which thy sub- 
jects bleed. 
Ah ! when will come the sacred fated 

time. 
When man unsullied by his leaders' 

crime. 
Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and 

pride, 
Will stretch him fearless by his foe- 
man's side ? 
Ah ! when will come the time, when 

o'er the plain 
No more shall death and desolation 

reign ? 
When will the sun smile on the blood- 
less field. 
And the stern warrior's arm the sickle 

wield ? 
Not whilst some King, in cold ambi- 
tion's dreams, 



Plans for the field of death his plodding 

schemes ; 
Not whilst for private pique the public 

fall. 
And one frail mortal's mandate governs 

all. 
Swelled with command and mad with 

dizzying sway ; 
Who sees unmoved his myriads fade 

away. 
Careless who lives or dies— so that he 

gains 
Some trivial point for which he took 

the pains. 
What then are Kings ? — I see the trem- 
bling crowd, 
I hear their fulsome clamors echoed 

loud ; 
Their stern oppressor pleased appears 

awhile. 
But April's sunshine is a Monarch's 

smile- 
Kings are but dust — the last eventful 

day 
Will level all and make them lose their 

sway ; 
Will dash the sceptre from the Mon- 
arch's hand. 
And from the warrior's grasp wrest 

the ensanguined brand. 
Oh ! Peace, soft peace, art thou for 

ever gone. 
Is thy fair form indeed for ever flown ? 
And love and concord hast thou swept 

away, 
As if incongruous with thy parted 

sway ? 
Alas I fear thou hast, for none ap- 
pear. 
Now o'er the palsied earth stalks giant 

Pear, 
With War, and Woe, and Terror, in 

his train ; 
Listening be pauses on the embattled 

plain ; 
Then speeding swiftly o'er the ensan- 
guined heath. 
Has left the frightful work to hell and 

death. 
See ! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stained 

car. 
He scents the battle carnage from 

afar ; 
Hell and destruction mark his mad 

career. 
He tracks the rapid step of hurrying 

Fear ; 
Whilst ruined towns and smoking cities 

tell, 
That thy work. Monarch, is the work 

of hell. 
It is thy work ! I hear a voice repeat, 



513 



FRAGMENT. 



Shakes the broad basis of thy blood- 
stained seat ; 

And at tlie orphan's sigh, the widow's 
moan, 

Totters the fabric of thy guilt-stained 
throne — 

"It is thy work, O Monarch;" now 
the sound 

Fainter and fainter, yet is borne 
around, 

Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs 
tell 

That heaven, indignant at the work of 
hell, 

Will soon the cause, the hated cause 
remove. 

Which tearsJ(from earth peace, inno- 
cence, and love. 

FRAGMENT. 

SUPPOSKU TO BE AN EPITHALA.MIUM 

OF FIJANX'IS KAVAILLAC AND 

CHARLOTTE CORDE. 

'T IS midnight now — athwart the 
murky air, 
Dank lurid meteors shoot a lurid 
gleam ; 
From the dark storm-clouds flashes a 
fearful glare, 
It shows the bending oak, the roar- 
ing stream. 
I pondered on the woes of lost man- 
kind, 
I pondered on the ceaseless rage of 
Kings ; 
My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that 
bind 
The mazy volume of commingling 
things. 
When fell and wild misrule to man 

stern sorrow brings. 
I heard a yell — it was not the knell. 
When the blasts on the wild lake 
sleep. 
That floats on the pause of the summer 
gale's swell, 
O'er the breast of the waveless deep. 

I thought it had been death's accents 
cold 
That bade me recline on the .shore ; 
I laid mine hot head on the surge- 
beaten mould. 
And thought to breathe no more. 

But a heavenly sleep 
That did suddenly steep 

In balm my bosom's pain, 
Pervaded my soul, 



And free from control. 
Did mine intellect range again. 



Methought enthroned upon a silvery 
cloud, 
Which floated mid a strange and bril- 
liant light ; 
My form upborne by viewless ether 
rode. 
And spurned the lessening realms of 
earthly night. 
What heavenly notes burst on my rav- 
isht ears. 
What beauteous spirits met my daz- 
zled eye ! 
Hark ! louder swells the music of the 
spheres. 
More clear the forftis of speechless 
bliss float by. 
And heavenly gestures suit ethereal 
melody. 



But fairer than the spirits of the 
air, 
More graceful than the sylph of 
symmetry, 
Than the enthusiast's fancied love 
more fair. 
Were the bright forms that swept 
the azure «ky. 
Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly 
band 
Strewed flowers of bliss that never 
fade away ; 
They welcome virtue to its native 
land. 
And songs of triumph greet the joy- 
ous day 
When endless bliss the woes of fleeting 
life repay. 



Congenial minds will seek their kin- 
dred soul, 
E'en tho' the tide of time has rolled 
between ; 
They mock weak matter's impotent 
control. 
And seek of endless life the eternal 
scene. 
At death's vain summons this will 
never die, 
In nature's chaos this will not de- 
cay— 
These are the bands which closely, 
warmly, tie 
Thy soul," O Charlotte, 'yond this 
chain of clay, 
To him who thiiie must be till time 
shall fade awa,y, 



DESPAIR. 



513 



Yes, Francis ! thine was the dear knife 
that tore 
Atyrant's heart-stings from his guilty 
breast, 
Thine was the daring at a tyrant's 
gore, 
To smile in triumph, to contemn the 
rest ; 
And thine, loved glory of thy sex ! to 
tear 
From its base shrine a despot's 
haughty soul. 
To laugh at sorrow in secure despair. 
To mock, with smiles, life's lingering 
control, 
And triumph mid the griefs that round 
thy fate did roll. 

Yes ! the fierce spirits of the avenging 
deep 
With endless tortures goad their 
guilty shades. 
1 see the lank and ghastly spectres 
sweep 
Along the burning length of yon 
arcades ; 
And I see Satan stalk athwart the 
plain ; 
He hastes along the burning soil of 
hell. 
" Welcome thou despots to my dark 
domain, 
•With maddening joy mine anguisht 
senses swell 
To welcome to their homes the friends 
I love so well.'' 



Hark ! to those notes, how sweet, how 

thrilling sweet 
They echo to the sound of angels' feet. 



Oh haste to the bower where roses are 

spread, 
For there is^ prepared thy nuptial bed. 
Oh haste — Hark ! hark ! — they're gone. 

Chorus of Spirits. 

Stay ye days of contentment and joy. 
Whilst love every care is erasing, 

Stay ye pleasures that never can cloy. 
And ye spirits that can never cease 
pleasing. 

And if any soft passion be near. 
Which mortals, frail mortals, can 
know. 
Let love shed on the bosom a tear. 
And dissolve the chill ice-drop of 
woe. 

33 



Symphonv. 

Francis. 

" Soft, my dearest angel stay, 
Oh ! you suck my soul away ; 
Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow , 
Tides of maddening passion roll, 
And streams of rapture drown my soul. 
Now give me one more billing kiss, 
Let your lips now repeat the bliss, 
Endless kisses steal my breath. 
No life can equal such a death." 

Charlotte. 

"Oh ! yes I will kiss thine eyes so fail-. 

And I will clasp thy form ; 
Serene is the breath of the balmy air, 

But I think, love, thou feelest me 
warm. 
And I will recline on thy marble neck 

Till I mingle into thee. 
And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek. 

And thou shalt give kisses to me. 
For here is no morn to flout our de- 
light, 

Oh ! dost thou not joy at this ? 
And here we may lie an endless night, 

A long, long night of bliss." 



Spirits ! when raptures move. 
Say what it is to love. 
When passion's tear stands on the 
cheek. 
When bursts the unconscious sigh ; 
And the tremulous lips dare not speak 

What is told by the soul-felt eye. 
But what is sweeter to revenge's ear 
Than the fell tyrant's last expiring 
yell ? 
Yes ! than love's sweetest blisses 't is 
more dear 
To drink the floatings of a despot's 
knell. 
I wake— 't is done— 't is o'er. 

DESPAIR. 

And canst thou mock mine agony, 
thus calm 
In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver 
night ? 
Can you, ye flowerets, spi*ead your per- 
fumed balm 
Mid pearly gems of dew that shine 
so bright ? 
And you wild winds, thus can you sleep 
so still 
Whilst throbs the tempest of my 
l)reast so high ? 



r.u 



FRAGMENT. 



Can the fierce night-fleuds rest on yon- 
der hill, 
And, in the eternal mansions of the 
sky, 

Can the directors of the storm in 
powerless silence lie ? 



Hark ! I hear music on the zephyr's 
wing, 
Louder it floats along the unruffled 
sky ; 
Some fairy sure has touched the view- 
less string- 
Now faint in distant air the mur- 
murs die, 
Awhile it stills the tide of agony. 
Now— now it loftier swells— again 
stern woe 
Arises with the awakening melody. 
Again fierce torments, such as 
demons know. 
In IMtterer, feller tide, on this torn 
bosom flow. 



Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm, 
Ye unseen minstrels of the aerial 
song. 
Pour the fierce tide- around this lonely 
form, 
And roll the tempest's wildest swell 
along. 
Dart the red lightning, wing the 
forked flash, 
Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the 
thunder's roar ; 
Arouse the whirlwind — and let ocean 
dash 
In fiercest tumult on the rocking 
shore, 
Destroy this life or let earth's fabric 
be no more. 



Yes ! every tie that links me here is 
dead"; 
Mysterious fate thy mandate I 
obey, 
Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye 
are fled, 
I come, terriflc power, I come away. 
Then o'er this ruined soul let spirits of 
hell, 
In triumph, laughing wildly, mock 
its pain ; 
And tho' with direst pangs mine heart- 
strings swell, 
I'll echo back their deadly yells 
again, 
Cursing the power that ne'er made 
aught in vain. 



FRAaMENT. 

Yes ! all is past— swift time has fled 
away. 
Yet its swell pauses on my sickening 
mind; 
How long will horror nerve this frame 
of clay ? 
I 'm dead, and lingers yet my soul 
behind. 
Oh ! powerful fate, revoke thy deadly 
spell. 
And yet that may not ever, ever be. 
Heaven will not .smile upon the work 
of hell ; 
Ah ! no, for heaven cannot smile on 
me ; 
Fate, envious fate, has sealed my way- 
ward destiny. 

I sought the cold brink of the midnight 
surge, 
I sighed beneath its wave to hide my 
woes. 
The rising tempest sung a funeral 
dirge. 
And on the blast a frightful yell 
arose. 
Wild flew the meteors o'er the mad- 
dened main. 
Wilder did grief athwart my bo.som 
glare ; 
Stilled was the unearthly howling, and 
a strain, 
Swelled mid the tumult of the bat- 
tling air, 
'T was like a spirit's song, but yet more 
soft and fair. 

I met a maniac ; like he was to me, 
I .said-—" Poor victim wherefore dost 
thou roam ? 
And canst thou not contend with 
agony. 
That thus at midnight thou dost 
quit thine home ?" 
" Ah there she sleeps : cold is her 
bloodless form, 
And I will go to slumber in her 
grave ; 
And then our ghosts, whilst raves the 
maddened storm, 
Will sweep at midnight o'er the wil- 
dered wave ; 
Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of 
pity lave ?" 

"Ah ! no, I cannot shed the pitying 
teai". 
This breast is cold, this heart can 
feel no more ; 



THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN. 



515 



But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, 
Can shriek in horror to the tempest's 
roar." 



THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN. 

What was the shriek that struck 
fancy's ear 

As it sate on the ruins of time that is 
past ? 

Hark ! it floats on the fitful blast of 
the wind, 

And breathes to the pale moon a 
funeral sigh. 

It is the Benshie's moan on the storm. 

Or a shivering fiend that thirsting for 
sin, 

Seeks murder and guilt when virtue 
sleeps, 

Winged with the power of some ruth- 
less king. 

And sweeps o'er the breast of the pros- 
trate plain. 

It was not a fiend from the regions of 
hell 

That poured its low moan on the still- 
ness of night : 

It was not a ghost of the guilty dead, 

Nor a yelling vampire reeking with 
gore ; 

But aye at the close of seven years' 
end. 

That voice is mixt with the swell of 
the storm, 

And aye at the close of seven years' 
end, • [hill 

A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the 

Awakens and floats on the mist of the 
heath. 

It is not the shade of a murdered man, 

Who has rusht uncalled to the throne 
of his God, 

And howls in the pause of the eddy- 
ing storm. 

This voice is low, cold, hollow, and 
chill, 

'T is not heard by the ear, but is felt 
in the .soul. 

'T is more frightful far than the death- 
demon's scream, 

Or the laughter of fiends when they 
howl o'er the corpse 

Of a man who has sold his soul to 
hell. 

It tells the approach of a mystic form, 

A white courser bears the shadowy 
sprite ; 

More thin they are than the mists of 
the mountain, 

When the clear moonlight sleeps on 
the waveless lake. 



More pale his cheek than the snows of 

Nithona, 
When winter rides on the northern 

blast. 
And howls in the midst of the leafless 

wood. 
Yet when the fierce swell of the tem- 
pest is raving, 
And tlie whirlwinds howl in the caves 

of Inisfallen, 
Still secure mid the wildest war of the 

sky. 
The phantom courser scours the 

waste. 
And his rider howls in the thunder's 

roar. 
O'er him the fierce bolts of avenging 

heaven 
Pause, as in fear, to strike his head. 
The meteors of midnight recoil from 

his figure, 
Yet the wildered peasant that oft 

passes by. 
With wonder beholds the blue flash 

thro' his form : 
And his voice, tho' faint as the sighs 

of the dead, 
The startled passenger shudders to 

hear. 
More distinct than the thunder's wild- 
est roar. 
Then does the dragon, who chained in 

the caverns 
To eternity, curses the champion of 

Erin, 
Moan and yell loud at the lone hour of 

midnight, 
And twine his vast wreaths round the 

forms of the demons ; 
Then in agony roll his death-.swimming 

eyeballs. 
Though wildered by death, yet never 

to die ! 
Then he shakes from his skeleton folds 

the nightmares. 
Who, shrieking in agony, seek the 

couch 
Of some fevered wretch who courts 

sleep in vain ; 
Then the tombless ghosts of the guilty 

dead 
In horror pause on the fitful gale. 
They float on the swell of the eddying 

tempest. 
And scared seek the caves of gigan- 
tic .. . 
Where their thin forms pour unearthly 

sounds 
On the blast that sweeps the breast of 

the lake. 
And mingles its swell with the moon- 
light air. 



516 



MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES. 



MELODY TO A SCENE OF 
FORMER TIMES. 

Art thou indeed for ever gone, 

For ever, ever, lost to me ? 
Must this poor bosom beat alone. 
Or beat at all, if not for thee ? 
Ah ! why was love to mortals given, 
To lift them to the height of heaven, 
Or dash them to the depths of hell ? 
Yet I do not reproach thee, dear ! 
Ah ! no, the agonies that swell 

This panting breast, this frenzied 
brain 

Might wake my 's slumb'ring 

tear. 
Oh ! heaven is witness I did love. 
And heaven does know I love thee 

still. 
Does know the fruitless sickening 
thrill. 
When reason's judgment vainly 
strove 
To blot thee from my memory ; • 
But which might never, never be. 
Oh ! I appeal to that blest day 
When passion's wildest ecsta.sy 
Was coldness to the joys I knew. 
When every sorrow sunk away. 
Oh ! I had never liv'd before, 
But now those blisses are no more. 
And now I cease to live again, 
I do not blame thee, love ; ah no ! 
The breast that feels this anguished 

woe 
Throbs for thy happiness alone. 
Two years of speechless bliss are gone, 
I thank thee dearest for the dream. 
'T is night— what faint and distant 

scream 
Comes on the wild and fitful blast ? 
It moans for pleasures that are past. 
It moans for days that are gone by. 
Oh ! lagging hours how slow you fly ! 

I see a dark and lengthened vale. 
The black view closes with the 

tomb : 
But darker is the lowering gloom 

That shades the intervening dale. 
In visioned slumber for awhile 
I seem again to share thy smile, 
I seem to hang upon thy tone. 

Again you say, "Confide in me, 
For I amthine, and thine alone. 
And thine must ever, ever be." 
But oh ! awakening still anew. 
Athwart my enanguisht senses flew 
A fiercer, deadlier agony ! 

[End of Posthumous Fragifiients of 
Marga ret Nicholson . ] 



STANZA FROM A TRANSLA- 
TION OF THE MARSEIL- 
LAISE HYMN. 
Tremble Kings despised of man 

Ye traitors to your Country 
Tremble ! Your parricidal plan 

At length shall meet its destiny . 
We all are soldiers fit to fight 
But if we sink in glory's night 
Our mother Earth will give ye new 
The brilliant pathway to punsue 

Which leads to Death or Victory. . 

BIGOTRY'S VICTIM. 



Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons 
of the wind. 
The lion to rouse from his skull- 
covered lair ? 
When the tiger approaches can the 
fast-fleeting hind 
Repose trust in his footsteps of air ? 
No ! Abandoned he sinks in a trance 
of despair. 
The monster transfixes his prey, 
On the sand flows his life-blood 
away ; 
Whilst India's rocks to his death-yells 

reply. 
Protracting the horrible harmony. 



Yet the fowl of the desert, when dan- 
ger encroaches, 
Dares fearless to perish defending 
her brood, 
Tho' the fiercest of cloud-piercing ty- 
rants approaches, 
Thirsting— ay, thirsting for blood ; 
And demands, like mankind, his 
brother for food ; 
Yet more lenient, more gentle 

than they ; 
For hunger, not glory, the prey 
Must perish. Revenge does not howl 

in the dead. 
Nor ambition with fame crown the 
murderer's head. 



Tho' weak, as the lama, that bounds 
on the mountains, 
And endued not with fast-fleeting 
footsteps of air. 
Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of 
"fountains, 
Tho' a fiercer than tiger is there. 



LOVE. 



517 



Tho' more dreadful than death, it scat- 
ters despair, 
Tho' its shadow eclipses the day, 
And the darkness of deepest dis- 
may 
Spreads the influence of soul-chilling 

terror around, 
And lowers on the corpses, that rot on 
the ground. 



They came to the fountain to draw 
from its stream. 
Waves too pure, too celestial, for 
mortals to see ; 
They bathed for awhile in its silvery 
beam, 
Then perisht, and perisht like me. 
For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot 
I flee ; 
The most tenderly loved of my 

soul 
Are slaves to his hated control. 
He pursues me, he blasts me ! 'T is in 

vain that I flj' : 
What remains, but to curse him, to 
curse him and die ? 

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG 

TO THE GRASS OF A 

GRAVE. 

I. 

Oh ! take the pure gem to where south- 
erly breezes. 
Waft repose to some bosom as faith- 
ful as fair, 
In which the warm current of love 
never freezes. 
As it rises unmingled with selfishness 

there, 
Which, untainted by pride, un- 
polluted by care. 
Might dissolve the dim icedrop, might 

bid it arise, 
roc pure for these regions, to gleam in 
the skies. 



Or where the stern warrior, his country 
defending. 
Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle 
to pour. 
Or o'er the fell corpse of a dread 
tyrant bending, 
Where patriotism red with his guilt- 
reeking gore 
Plants liberty's flag on the slave- 
peopled shore, 



With victory's cry, with the shout of 

the free. 
Let it fly, taintless spirit, to mingle 

with thee. 



For I found the pure gem, when the 
daybeam returning, 
Inefllectual gleams on the snow- 
covered plain, 
When to others the wisht-for arrival 
of morning 
Brings relief to long visions of soul- 
racking pain ; 
But regret is an insult— to grieve is 
in vain 
And why should we grieve that a spirit 

so fair 
Seeks Heaven to mix with its own kin- 
dred there ? 



But still 't was some spirit of kindness 
descending 
To share in the load of mortality's 
woe. 
Who over the lowly-built sepulchre 
bending 
Bade sympathy's tenderest teardrop 

to flow. 
Not for thee, soft compassion, celes- 
tial did know, 
But if anriels can weep, sure vuiu may 

repine. 
May weep in mute grief o'er thy low- 
laid shrine. 



And did I then say, for the altar of 
glory. 
That the earliest, the loveliest of 
flowers I 'd entwine, 
Tho' with millions of blood-reeking 
victims 't was gory, 
Tho' the tears of the widow polluted 

its shrine, 
Tho' around it the orphans, the 
fatherless pine ? 
Oh ! Fame, all thy glories I'd yield for 
a tear 
shed on the grave of a heart so 
sincere. 

LOVE. 

Why is it said thou canst not live 
In a youthful breast and fair. 

Since thou eternal life canst give, 
Canst bloom for ever there ? 



518 



ON A FETE AT CAULTON HOUSE: FRAGMENT. 



Since withering pain no power possest, 

Nor age, to blancli tliy vermeil liue, 
Nor time's dread victor, doatli, confest, 

Tho' batlied with his poison dew, 
Still thou retain'st unchanging bloom, 
Fist tranquil, even in the tomb. 
And oh ! when on the blest reviving 

The day-star dawns of love, 
Each energy of soul surviving 

More vivid, soars above. 
Hast thou ne'er felt a rapturous thrill. 

Like June's warm breath, athwart 
thee fly, 
O'er each idea then to steal, 

"When other passions die ? 
Felt it in some wild noonday dream, 
AVhen sitting by the lonely stream. 
Where Silence says, "Mine is the 
dell ; " 

And not a murmur from the plain, 
And not an echo from the fell. 

Disputes her silent reign. 

ON A FETE AT CARLTON 
HOUSE : FRAGMENT. 

By the mossy brink. 
With me the Prince shall sit and 

think ; 
Shall muse in vlsioned Regency, 
Rapt in bright dreams of dawning 
Royalty. 

TO A STAR. 

Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the 

darksome scene 
Thro' fleecy clouds of silvery radiance 

fliest', 
Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy 

veil. 
Which shrouds the day-beam from the 

waveless lake. 
Lighting the hour of sacred love ; 

more sweet 
Than the expiring morn-star's paly 

fires. 
Sweet star ! When wearied Nature 

sinks to sleep. 
And all is husht,— all, save the voice 

of Love, 
Whose broken murmurings swell the 

balmy blast 
Of soft Favonius, which at intervals 
Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou 

aught but 
Lulling the slaves of interest to repose 
With that mild, pitying gaze ! Oh, I 

would look 
In thy dear beam till every bond of 

sense 
Became enamored— 



TO MARY, WHO DIED IN THIS 
OPINION. 



Maiden, quench the glare of sorrow 
Struggling in thy haggard eye : 

Firmness dare to borrow 
From the wreck of destiny ; 

For the ray morn's bloom revealing 

Can never boast so bright a hue 
As that which mocks concealing, 

And sheds its loveliest light on you. 



Yet is the tie departed 
Which bound thy lovely soul to bliss ? ' 

Has it left thee broken-hearted 
In a world so cold as this ! 

Yet, the', fainting fair one, 
Sorrow's self thy cup has given. 

Dream thou'lt meet thy dear one, 
Never more to part, in heaven. 



Existence would I barter 
For a dream so dear as thine, 
And smile to die a martyr 
On affection's bloodless shrine. 

Nor would I change for pleasure 
That withered hand and ashy cheek, 

If my heart enshrined a ti'easure 
Such as forces thine to break. 



A TALE OF SOCIETY AS IT IS : 
FROM FACTS, 1811. 

I. 

She was an aged woman ; and the 
years 
Which she had numbered on her toil- 
some way 
Had bowed her natural powers to 

decay. 
She was an aged woman ; yet the 
ray 
Which faintly glimmered thro' her 

starting tears, 
Prest into light by silent misery. 
Hath soul's imperishable energy. 
She was a cripple, and incapable 
To add one mite to gold-fed luxury : 
And therefore did her spirit dimly 
feel ^ . , 

That poverty, the crime of tamt- 
ing stain, 
Would merge her in its depths, never 
to rise again. 



A TALE OF SOCIETY AS IT IS : FROM FACTS, 1811. ^19 



One only son's love had supported 
her. 
She long- had struggled with in- 
firmity, 
Lingering to human life-scenes ; 

for to die, 
When fate has spared to rend some 
mental tie, 
Would manj^ wish, and surely fewer 

dare. 
But, when the tyrant's bloodhounds 

forced the child 
For his cursed power unhallowed 
arms to wield— 
Bend to another's will— become a 
thing 
More senseless than the sword of 
battlefield- 
Then did she feel keen sorrow's 
keenest sting ; 
A.nd many years had past ere comfort 
they would bring. 



For seven yeai's did this poor woman 
live 
In unparticipated solitude. 
Thou mightst have seen her in the 

forest rude 
Picking the scattered remnants of 
its wood. 
If human, thou mightst then have 

learned to grieve. 
The gleanings of precarious charity 
Her scantiness of food did scarce 
supply. 
The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow 
dwelt 
Within lier ghastly hoUowness of 
eye : 
Each arrow of the season's change 
she felt. 
Yet still she groans, ere yet her race 
were run. 
One only hope : it was — once more to 
see her son. 

IV. 

It was an eve of June, when every 
star 
Spoke peace from heaven to those 

on earth that live. 
She rested on the moor. 'T was 

such an eve 
When first her soul began indeed 
to grieve : 
Then he was here ; now he is very 

far. 
The .sweetness of the balmy evening 



A sorrow o'er her aged soul did fling. 
Yet not devoid of rapture's mingled 
tear : 
A balm was in the poison of the sting. 
This aged sufferer for many a year 
Had never felt such comfort. She 
supprest 
A sigh — and turning round, claspt Wil- 
liam to her breast ! 



And, tho' his form was wasted by 
the woe 
Which tyrants on their victims 

love to wreak, 
Tho' his sunk eyeballs and his faded 

cheek 
Of slavery's violence and scorn did 
speak, 
Yet did the aged woman's bosom 

glow. 
The vital fire seemed reillumed with- 
in 
By this sweet unexpected welcom- 
ing. 
O, consummation of the fondest 
hope 
That ever soared on fancy's wildest 
wing ! 
Oh, tenderness that found'st so 
sweet a scope ! 
Prince who dost pride thee on thy 
mighty swaj^ 
When thou canst feel such love, thou 
shalt be great as they ! 



VI. 

Her son, compelled, the country's 
foes had fought, 
Had bled in battle ; and the stern 

control 
Which ruled his sinews and coei'ced 

his soul 
Utterly poisoned life's unmingled 
bowl. 
And unsubduable evils on him brought. 
He was the shadow of the lusty 

child 
Who, when the time of summer sea- 
son smiled, 
Did earn for her a meal of honesty. 
And with affectionate discourse be- 
guiled 
The keen attacks of pain and pov- 
erty ; 
Till Power, as envying her this only 
joy, 
From her maternal bosom tore the un- 
happy boy. 



520 



TO THE REPUBLICANS OF NORTH AMERICA. 



VII. 

And now cold charity's unwelcome 
dole 
Was insufficient to support the 

pair ; 
And tliey would perish rather than 

would bear 
The law's stern slavery, and the 
Insolent stare 
With which law loves to rend the 

poor man's soul— 
The bitter scorn, the spirit-sinking 

noise 
Of heartless mirth which women, 
men, and boys, 
Wake in this scene of legal misery. 



rO THE REPUBLICANS OF NORTH 
AMERICA. 



Brothers ! between you and me 
Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar : 

Yet in spirit oft I see 
On thy wild and winding shore 

Freedom's bloodless banners wave,— 

Feel the pulses of the brave 

Unextinguisht in the grave, — 
See them drencht in sacred gore,— 

Catch the warrior's gasping breath 

Murmuring " Liberty or death ! " 



Shout aloud ! Let every slave, 

Crouching at Corruption's throne, 
Start into a man, and brave 

Racks and chains without a groan ; 
And the castle's heartless glow, 
And the hovel's vice and woe. 
Fade like gaudy flowers that blow- 
Weeds that peep, and then are gone ; 
Whilst, from misery's ashes risen. 
Love shall burst the captive's prison. 



Cotopaxi ! bid the sound 

Thro' thy sister mountains ring, 
Till each valley smile around 
At the blissful welcoming ! 
And O thoii stern Ocean-deep, 
Thou whose foamy billows sweep 
Shores where thousands wake to weep 

Whilst they curse a villain king, 
On the winds that fan thy breast 
Bear thou news of Freedom's rest ! 



Can the day-star dawn of love. 

Where the flag of war unfurled 
Floats with crimson stain above 
The fabric of a ruined world ? 
Never but to vengeance driven 
When the patriot's spirit shriven 
Seeks in death its native heaven ! 

There, to desolation hurled, 
Widowed love may watch thy bier, 
Balm thee with its dying tear. 

TO IRELAND. 

Be.\r witness, Erin ! when thine in-i 

jured isle. 
Sees summer on its verdant pastures 

smile, 
Its cornfields waving in the winds that 

sweep 
The billowy surface of thy circling! 

deep. 
Thou tree whose shadow o'er the Atlan-i 

tic gave 
Peace, wealth, and beauty, to its; 

friendly wave, 

its blossoms fade, 
And blighted are t le leaves that cast' 

its shade ; 
Whilst the cold hand gathers its scanty] 

fruit. 
Whose chillness struck a canker to itS| 

root. 

TO HARRIET : A FRAGMENT. 

O THOU I 

Whose dear love gleamed upon thel 

gloomy path 
Which this lone spirit travelled, dreari 

and cold i 

But swiftly leading to tho.se awfulj 

limits 
Which mark the bounds of time, and 

of the space 
When time shall be no more,— wilt 

thou not turn 
Those spirit-beaming eyes, and look 

on me, 
Until I be assured that earth is heaven, 
And heaven is earth ? 

THE DEVIL'S WALK. 

A BALLAD. 



Once, early in the morning, 

Beelzebub arose. 
With care his sweet person adorning. 

He put on his Sunday clothes. 



THE DEVIL S WALK. 



0-2 1 



He drew on a boot to hide his hoof, 

He drew on a glove to hide his claw, 
His horns were concealed by a hras- 

cliapcau 
And the Devil went forth as natty a 
beau, 
As Bond Street ever saw. 



He sate him down, in London town, 

Before earth's morning ray, 
With a -favorite imp he began' to chat, 
On religion, and scandal, this and 
that, 
Until the dawn of dav. 



And then to St. James's Court he went, 

And St. Paul's Church he took on 

his way, 

He was mighty thick with every Saint, 

Tho' they were formal and" he was 

gay. 



The Devil was an agriculturist, 

And as bad weeds quickly grow, 

[n looking over his farm, I wist 

He would n't find cause for wop. 



He peept in each hole, to each chamber 
stole, 
His promising live-stock to view ; 
Cxrinning applause, he just showed 

them his claws. 
And they shrunk with affright from 
his ugly sight. 
Whose work thev delighted to do. 



^atan poked his red nose into crannies 
so .small, 
One would think that the inno- 
cents fair. 
Poor lambkins ! were just doing noth- 
ing at all, 

But settling some dress or arranging 
some ball, 
But the Devil saw deeper there. 



k Priest, at whose elbow the Devil 
during pi-ayer, 
Sate familiarly, side by side, 
Declared, that if the tempter were 
there. 
His presence he would not abide. 



Ah, ha I thought Old Nick, that 's a 

very stale trick, 
For without the Devil, O favoi-ite of 

evil, 
In your carriage you would not 

ride. 



Satan next saw a brainless King, 

Whose house was as hot as his own, 
Many imps in attendance were there 

on the wing, 
They flapt the pennon and twisted the 
sting. 
Close by the very Throne. 



Ah, ha ! thought Satan, the pasture is 
good, 
My Cattle will here thrive better 
than others, 
They dine on news of human blood. 
They sup on the groans of the dying 

and dead, 
And supperless never will go to bed ; 
Which will make them fat as their 
brothers. 



Fat as the finds that feed on blood, 
Fresh and warm from the fields of 
Spain, 
Where ruin ploughs her gory way, 
When the shoots of earth are nipt in 
the bud. 
Where Hell is the Victor's prey, 
Its glory the meed of the slain. 

XII. 

Fat— as the death-birds on Erin's shore, 

That glutted themselves on her dearest 

gore 

And flitted round Castlereagh, 

When they snatcht the Patriot's heart, 

that h is grasp 
Had torn from its widow's maniac 
clasp, 
And fled at the dawn of day. 

XIII. 

Fat— as the reptiles of the tomb, 
That riot in corruption's spoil, 
That fret their little hour in gloom, 
And creep, and live the while. 



Fat as that Prince's maudlin brain, 
Which addled by some gilded toy, 



522 



THE DEVIL S WALK. 



Tired, gives his sweetmeat, and again 
Cries for it, like a humored boy. 



For he is fat, his waistcoat gay. 
When strained upon a levee day, 
Scarce meets across his princely 
paunch, 
And pantaloons are like half moons 
Upon each brawny haunch. 



How vast his stock of calf ! when 
plenty 
Had filled his empty head and heart, 
Enough to satiate foplings twenty. 
Could make his pantaloon seams 
start. 



The Devil, (who sometimes is called 
nature,) 
For men of power provides thus well, 
Whilst every change and every fea- 
ture, 
Their great original can tell. 

XVIII. 

Satan saw a lawyer a viper slay. 

That crawled up the leg of his 
table. 

It reminded him most marvellously. 
Of the stoi-y of Cain and Abel. 

XIX. 

The wealthy yoeman, as he wanders, 

His fertile fields among, 
And on his thriving cattle ponders, 
Counts his sure gains, and hums a 
song ; 
Thus did the Devil, thro' earth walk- 
ing, 
Hum low a hellish song. 

XX. 

For they thrive well, whose garb of 
gore, 
Is Satan's choicest livery. 
And they thrive well, who from the 
poor. 
Have snatcht the bread of penury. 
And heap the houseless wanderer's 
store. 
On the rank pile of luxury. 



The Bishops thrive, tho' they are big, 
The Lawyers thrive, tho' they are 
thin ; 

For every gown, and every wig, 
Hides the safe thrift of Hell within. , 



Thus pigs were never counted clean, 
Altho' they dine on finest corn ; 

And cormorants are sin-like lean, 
Altho' they eat from night to morn, 



Oh ! why is the Father of Hell in suchti 
glee. 
As he grins from ear to ear ? 
Why does he doff his clothes joyfully. 
As he skips, and prances, and flaps 
his wing, ^ 

As he sidles, leers, and twirls his( 
sting. 
And dares, as he is, to appear ? 



A statesman past— alone to him, 
The Devil dare his whole shape un- 
cover. 

To show each feature, every limb, 
Secure of an unchanging lover. 

XXV. 

At this known sign, a welcome sight. 
The watchful demons sought their 
King, 

And every fiend of the Stygian night, 
Was in an instant on the wing. 



Pale Loyalty, his guilt-steeled brow. 
With ' wreaths of glory laurel 
crowned ; 
The hell-hounds. Murder, Want, and 
Woe, 
For ever hungering flockt around ; 
From Spain had Satan sought their 

food, 
'T was human woe and human blood ! 



Hark the earthquake's crash I hear, 
Kings turn pale and Conquerors 
start. 

Ruffians tremble in their fear. 
For their Satan doth depart. 



THE DEVIL S WALK. 



523 



XXVIII. 

This day fiends ^ive to revelry, 
To celebrate their King's return, 

And with delight its sire to see, 
Hell's adamantine limits burn. 

XXIX. 

But were the Devil's sight as keen 
As Reason's penetrating eye, 



His sulphurous Majesty I ween. 
Would find but little cause for joy. 



For the sons of Reason see, 
That ere fate coiisiuiie the Pole, 

The false Tyrant's cheek shall be. 
Bloodless as his coward soul. 



THE END. 



,# > 7 34 









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